iCTi 



$ ;>• 


®vnr top £ x'& v-i.v ;■< wirMwfjM 1 : 

*V«f£iM*9^V;t-v5Fy.***;■ i: Hi U K *U'.r, 
s A ' ',*>1 i' V %’'.*»>■■*■}: ; ';' 



* *•,' csK/ iii’a-J. 'Si 


(H 




VfSl 


fit 




,l.ii 


CXlfGt 


ZE* 


ft 





,-^j* .•■^♦•Vj * i 

Bora. 1 

;• Vy*»' 


HRRRBlil 


FV 


' <WfflK •'■> .V>. :'• 'i 4 t* 
■ rSY ^'. V/V.v-V»V 

S^^com« 8K(S 
w^fc SSS&M: e*$sK«k* 

< ,<»'o. .a ;C JCTj< 




t (. i v 



Hi £? 

M flgwa Bfefe 

>/n i 1 ^ SB 





































































































































































































































































































































■ 














































































~ 

A f- . r , . 










































\ 




















The Honorable 
Miss Cherry Blossom 



THE HONORABLE 
MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


A NOVEL 


BY 

LUELLEN TETERS BUSSENIUS 


y 


NICHOLAS L. BROWN 

NEW YORK MCMXXIV 



Copyright, 1924 
By 


/ 


NICHOLAS L. BROWN 

All Rights Reserved 
Including Dramatic and 
Photoplay Rights 


PRINTED IN TJ. S. A. 


©C1A823074 >y 






\ 


V y 


The Honorable 
Miss Cherry Blossom 






' s.-T-. 




>-• C 









































« y 


* 



















* 





i 






y 


'$r 






‘A 








) 



r 




















r ■ 








t . ’ * ' 






















*■ 




■ 







CHAPTER I 


a | ^ ANDI! Bandi! Four million years of happi- 
ness. Bandi!” The shrill cry of chubby chil- 
dren by the roadside arose hospitably, as fat, 
grimy little hands lifted high in greeting. A proces¬ 
sion of young girls, musnmees, pigeon-stepping in their 
wooden clogs or getas, tottered by, their black looped 
hair glistening with camellia oil, picturesque in their 
rainbow kimonos. Out in the middle of the streets 
types were endless and varied: hawkers of sweet paste, 
the moji-yaki, or letter burner, whose unpalatable cakes 
aim to attract those sentimentally inclined by their car- 
diacal shaping; with impressive skill, artistic though it 
only consisted in blowing wonderful rabbits and monkeys 
from a mixture of dough, the jelly man held his culi¬ 
nary triumphs aloft so that they might be viewed with 
covetousness. 

Working patiently in the traces with half-naked leg 
men or coolies—great splendid fellows whose brown 
flesh, thick with sinews of strength, glistened as bronze 
under drops of moisture — were pleasant-faced old 
women, happy at being thus favored by the gods, their 
shapeless forms clad in faded blue trousers and jackets, 
to give better agility, their backs bent under heavy boxes 
as some unfamiliar beasts of burden. Through the 
panorama drifted groups of students, their pale faces 


7 


8 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


testifying to hours of sedentary tasks, their closely 
cropped heads crowned peculiarly by flat, odd caps, and 
scarlet socks providing unexpected contrast to their 
sombre attire. Fortune tellers, figuratively juggling 
with fate, tossed their little blocks of red and black wood 
in the air with careful precision. 

Immature girls of tender years, the little mothers of 
Japan, clustered in curious groups, their hacks doubled 
under the lusty burdens they carried of the babies of 
the family, strapped knapsack fashion across the 
shoulders. 

Women working, everywhere, old, withered, leaping 
with agility over hales on the carts, supporting ponder¬ 
ous loads above their heads. It was menial, deprived 
of any of the friendly footing of equality, even in these 
labors. 

It shadowed some of the picturesque features of the 
brilliant panorama of human activity and color spread 
before the eyes. 

This was Tokio—if you came by the Shimhashi, in 
the Tsukiji quarter. The big artery of human con¬ 
trasts, the street, possessed a character to he reckoned 
with, potential in its influences: hafiling, absorbing, 
lurid, tempting, nowhere is life more conglomerate, more 
heterogeneous, than on the Ginza, which has been graph¬ 
ically called the Regent Street of this imperial city of 
Dai Rippon. For priest and infidel rub elbows in its 
ever-moving crowds, the flaunting purple and scarlet 
silk folds of the garb of the favorites of the Yoshiwara 
mingle with the stainless, undefiled robes of virginity. 
Eyes bleared by more than experience, faces loathsome 
with the cruel imprint of reckless squandering of youth; 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


9 


hideous half-old men and women meet the gaze, undis¬ 
turbed at the horror they arouse. Beauty there is, too, 
in the mellow rhythm of the temple bells, the soft vapor¬ 
ous curl of incense, a glint of redness and gold, in smart 
trickeries of cloisonne, of ivory, of lacquer, of richly 
carved leathers, and the inevitable teakwood. One can 
buy everything along the Ginza—even to a soul. 

Life has its values, too. There are pursuits that test 
the cleverness of the brain, as well as the wrist; gay 
amusement parlors open to the street, always the tinkle 
of the koto, or the less musical samisen, never melodious, 
even under cultivated fingers; for music must be meas¬ 
ured by latitude and longitude, and what is the battle 
hymn of one race easily becomes the requiem of another. 

There were numerous other streets in this tempera¬ 
mental, unique abode of the Oriental—strange, mysteri¬ 
ous, crooked wanderings, radiating from the center like 
so many spokes of a wheel, down which flapping gar¬ 
ments move, until suddenly swallowed up by the unex¬ 
pected angle of a corner. Plenty of these there were, 
assuredly, dignified by the name of thoroughfares, where 
rickshaws boldly ran on the footpaths, pushing pedes¬ 
trians to the wall, where dogs barked in fright and pain 
at kicks that cleared the way—but there was only one 
Ginza. 

One could reach it another way, by the Sakurado- 
gomon, the Cherryfield Gate, coming across the Shiro, 
that giant masonry at whose feet lazily crept a moat, 
sleepy with stagnation, where noised bitterns and herons, 
homing in the thick boughs. 

Deering knew nothing of this. He had just arrived 
by express, and a coolie was pulling his ’rickshaw 


10 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


through the streets, so narrow in places that the wheels 
hit against the forms of the hurrying, smiling people. 
Disappointment lay in his eyes as he looked at 
the thoroughfares, hideous with brick buildings of 
familiar foreign architecture, the tops of which bristled 
irregularly with ugly modern iron chimneys, like the 
blackened teeth of snarling beasts, to prevent conflagra¬ 
tion when the always-feared “jishin,” or earthquake, 
comes. The harshness of the coolies’ reiterated cries, 
“Hai! Hai!”, a command for passage and warning, dis¬ 
turbed him remotely. 

He had expected old Japan; Yamata damashii, old 
Japan, lay not a stone’s throw from him, in the Shiro, 
but he was unaware of its proximity, in the heart of 
the city, where the moat curled past the Castle Hill, its 
banks edged with fringes of willows and the exquisite 
pink of cherry blossoms in their season; and spanned by 
quaint historic bridges, giddily adorned with brilliant 
red and black lacquer to uphold the traditions of their 
samurai and daimyo. 

Once lotus lilies bloomed on the glassy water, hut 
East is West, and lotus lilies and malaria belonged to 
old Japan and its dreams. For with the Greater Learn¬ 
ing for Women in vogue, that book which Japanese 
maidens now peruse openly, to discard clogs for French 
heels and picturesque kimonos for corsets and tailored 
skirts, one must forfeit the flower for the sake of science, 
though the imperturbable Buddha still embraces its 
petals as a symbol of immortality, and retains the lotus 
for rituals of superstition. 

“Bandi! Bandi!” The light treble of the children 
was a relief from the tuneless jargon of older voices. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


11 


Deering thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth 
some coin, scattering it generously over the dark cropped 
heads. Oblique slits of eyes regarded him gravely, 
even with fear; it was evident they had not expected 
such liberal treatment from the Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner. But youth is youth, regardless of geograph¬ 
ical differences, and fat little legs, unsteady in their 
clogs, ran after the sweet paste man to indulge in sins 
of veniality and appetite. 

“Four million years of happiness,” chirped their fresh 
young voices, in a valedictory. Deering smiled with fine 
cynicism, in disbelief; two, even one, would he all he 
would require, if happiness could he secured so easily. 
He was prepared to moralize, hut the coolie jerked him 
significantly before the frail toy bamboo house where 
Edwards lived, hanging like an unsupported bird’s nest 
to the side of the steep hill. Outwardly it resembled 
its surrounding neighbors, which were grouped around 
it somewhat in the fashion of a mother hen and its 
brood. A glimpse within open doors revealed the slid¬ 
ing windows, or shoji; the tatami, or floor mats, were 
stainless, and Deering glanced uncomfortably at the 
remnants of dust and cinders on his shoes, for he under¬ 
stood that no step was allowed to profane such spot¬ 
lessness. There was a tiny fire box, the hihachi, even 
so sending out a cloud of faintly blue smoke—or was 
it incense? The inevitable pot of flowers stood on the 
inevitable bamboo stand; and the shrine of Buddha, the 
Butsumono—where every plaint of the heart is uttered 
with supreme faith, from the tragedies of the house¬ 
hold, burnt rice cakes, and indigestible bread—to the 
despair of the soul, tramping toward Hirvana, released 


12 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

ever and anon to undergo earthly pilgrimage, working 
out its destiny. 

It also proved something else; it was the existence 
of feminine atmosphere in Edward’s house, for the 
Butsumono represents chiefly the devotions of women. 

Edwards himself, with a hearty vociferous greeting 
and a warm clasping of arms, rushed out, older, greyer, 
a tinge of restraint withal in his manner that sat pecu¬ 
liarly upon him. He bore him into the tiny house, not 
allowing him to put himself to such discomfort as to 
remove his shoes, talking, laughing all in one breath, 
and covering a lapse of three years that had separated 
them. The chairs, what few there were, were stiff and 
uncomfortable, in spite of the cushions his host piled 
behind him; but friendship is not influenced by exter¬ 
nals, any more than the rain washes off the exquisite 
lustre of the wings of a butterfly; so they smoked, and 
chatted, and sipped tepid cups of sake, gradually bring¬ 
ing their reminiscences up to the present. A samisen, 
faint, discordant, accompanied by a woman’s voice, filled 
in the gaps of conversation which Edwards made awk¬ 
ward attempts to fill. Deering made no comment; he 
was deeply glad to see his friend, and interested in his 
suggestions as to the best methods of applying himself 
in his new home, familiarizing himself with economic 
conditions that prevailed here. For his host had long 
held a commercial government position, and his exper¬ 
ience was of value. Deering had come to win, and win 
he must; and it made little difference to him whether it 
was the management of his father’s occidental offices, as 
it happened to he, or connection with strangers. Per¬ 
haps he would have preferred the latter; for failure in 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


13 


examinations, coupled with an avalanche of college 
debts, had not tended to convince hi3 father of any latent 
merit on his part. But though one may flunk at college, 
there is always open the chance to pass at the Antipodes. 
There is one trivial qualification, though, and that is 
that one must determine in advance what should be 
passed. Climate undoubtedly rules the senses, and in 
the tropics love is of much more importance than 
learning. 

Knowing his parent’s idiosyncrasies, in order to be 
permitted to go to Japan, Deering proposed India; for 
by nature contrary, the older man immediately vetoed 
such daring. Besides, he had no desire to assume busi¬ 
ness obligations at such remote distance. Japan was 
nearer. He had already made connections there, with 
the intention of establishing a branch. In its infancy, 
placing his son in charge, he could not lose much, for 
he as yet had no belief in his acumen and ability. He 
wondered as to the reason Jack wished to go to India— 
but he failed to suspect why the suggestion of Japan 
had not been rejected. 

Ever since a Presidential appointment put Mr. Hor¬ 
ace Denton in charge of the embassy, and the entire 
Denton family, Grace, the Irish cook, Pomeranians, 
and Cousin Em (Mrs. Denton’s widowed sister), young 
Deering had suppressed a violent desire to follow, biding 
his time for the psychological opportunity; and it had 
arrived. It was more than a reason; influenced by Eis 
repressed sentiment for Grace, it was an inducement. 

The unmusical samisen tinkled louder; a woman was 
singing in the little enclosure in the rear. 


14 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

'‘Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden . . . 

Chan, Chan, 

Cha, Cha. 

Yoitomose— 

Yoitomose— 

Chan, Chan, Chan. 

Come, let ns dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden. . 

Edwards arose with a red face and pushed the shoji 
or sliding window in place to shut out the sounds. He 
hesitated, then thrust his hands into his pockets with, 
small embarrassment. 

“I might as well tell you, Deering, old boy,” he burst 
forth, awkwardly. “That’s my honorable wife—by 
adoption. You see, over here it’s very simple—and 
much nicer than a cook. There’s no trouble then about 
arranging the work or managing a house, for one un¬ 
accustomed to the ways of a country. Oh, it’s quite 
respectable, I assure you. A lot of fine fellows do it 
here, men of the highest standing at home. There’s 
little alternative, you see. The mothers arrange it and 
are glad to get the money it brings in. A mother with 
several daughters manages to live very nicely hiring out 
wives this way. I admit to our puritanical western 
standards it sounds hateful, yet these girls lose no re¬ 
spect by doing it, or even by going into the Yoshiwara 
that institution sanctioned by the government, where 
girls of splendid family can go in order to support their 
parents. I am not excusing it, remember, Jack. Neither 
am I condemning it. I don’t think we westerners have 
that right. It’s the custom here. Just as with us we 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


15 


resent the foreigners’ questioning our habits, so here 
the same feeling exists. It is safer to keep out of it 
and adopt the customs. I am sure that what you or I 
think would count for nothing, anyway, here, when cen¬ 
turies of practise uphold it. And you must keep in mind 
that the position of woman, as an individual, this side of 
the hemisphere is not what it is with us; she is an in¬ 
ferior being, valuable chiefly because of her propagat¬ 
ing, and comes last compared to the male; father first, 
then husband, sons, son-in-law, grandson. Can you 
wonder that to he a hired wife of Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner is an arrangement that most of them strive 
to make? For it means absolute independence, com¬ 
forts and an income.” 

“I admit that it means all of that,” Deering replied, 
seeing that his friend expected some comment from him, 
“but you have omitted the most important thing of all 
that it actually means—something that in our country 
would brand you both as violators of the law, something 
that, no matter if it is sanctioned by custom in this part 
of the globe for the woman to share in, yet it condemns 
her always to that stigma and robs her of what women 
of civilized countries hold most priceless of all.” 

“You mean-” Edwards paused, a bit taken back 

by Deering’s hostile denunciation. 

“This is what I mean,” his friend said with em¬ 
phasis. “You’re my friend, Edwards,’ and forgive me 
if I hurt you. But you, the man, civilized, know how 
you are wronging her. She is doing nothing wrong, 
according to our highest ethics, unaware that the custom 
of her land, which sanctions her living without ceremony 
with you, is all wrong. Her mind is innocent. She is 



16 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


not immoral in what she does through ignorance. But 
you know better. Therefore, I cannot condemn her. 
But I do blame you.” 

“But Jack, old friend, surely you didn't come all this 
distance here to quarrel with me, just because I comply 
with a custom of a foreign country, as hundreds of other 
men no better than I do ? It's foolish, old hoy. You 11 
he the laughing stock with your musty, ancient ideas. 
I claim the privileges accorded my sex all over the 
world. According to custom, I am not sinning. Neither 
is she, according to the customs which uphold her.” He 
arose, chafing under the criticism; his short, wadded 
silk jacket such as all Japanese gentlemen wear indoors, 
lent him a distinct foreign appearance, which his dark 
hair and eyes augmented. His slippers were noiseless 
* over the hare floor. 

“Come, you shall see her. She's a dainty little thing. 
They're all alike, no soul, no emotion—just like dolls.” 
He stepped to the sliding window at the rear, calling 
gently: 

“O-Sono-san! O-Sono-san!” He turned to Deering, 
who was regarding him with grave eyes. “Her name 
is Blower Garden, and she is really a very nice little 
thing.” 

There was a stir at the opening, the removing of clogs, 
and a small form glided in silently in white stockinged 
feet. The sun slanted in through the shoji, a beam 
falling on her glistening coal-black hair, and caught up 
the irridescent splendor of metal threads in the gay rose 
obi on her soft green kimono. Her narrow, inscrutable 
eyes raised swiftly to the visitor and were promptly 
lowered. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


17 


“Ohayo,” she murmured politely, which was quite 
in accordance with the code, as prescribed in the Book 
of Greater Learning for Women. Her black head bowed 
in servile obeisance. She retreated gracefully, until 
her tiny form disappeared through the aperture leading 
into the next room, and the beams of the sun seemed to 
have departed with her, held by her lustrous metal 
threads. 

Deering said nothing; he knew Edwards was studying 
his face, trying to decipher his disapproval. 

“It’s not harming either one of us, Jack,” he finally 
spoke, in defense of his position. “If I didn’t have her, 
some other Honorable Foreigner would; or worse, one 
of her own countrymen. I don’t heat her, as many of 
her friends do their chattel, and I allow her freedom. 
You must remember that customs differ in different 
countries. There is nothing truer than that statement 
that morality is merely a matter of geography. The 
Orientals have always given greater consideration to the 
care of the soul than to the care of the body—for they 
believe the body is only a dwelling place in which the 
soul must live while on earth. To them, it is what they 
call the City of the Nine Gates. There is nothing vicious 
in their customs—men and women bathe together quite 
frankly. In fact, if you go inland, as you probably will, 
you will notice the friendly visits that go on in bath 
tubs, drawn to the door. There is no race more cleanly 
in their bodily practices. I’ve thought the whole thing 
over and can see nothing wrong in what I am doing. 
Someday, when I have finished my labors here, I’ll re¬ 
turn home, and it will he only a memory. Life gives 
little that we retain, at best.” 


18 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“And what of her?” Deering blew the smoke care¬ 
lessly from his month, his gaze direct on his friend. The 
expression of the girl’s eyes conveyed a subtle, tragic 
sadness. He felt a peculiar commiseration for her as 
he would have entertained for a wounded feathered 
songstress. 

Edwards shrugged his shoulders expressively. 

“What becomes of any of them?” He waved his 
hands with an expansive gesture. “Passed on to an¬ 
other, perhaps. They’re very proud of being proficient, 
even in this relation. Emotion is only superficial with 
them. Life, love, grief, it’s all mechanical, not even 
scratching the skin. There would be another master 
for her. . . .” 

“I think she loves you,” Deering said with bluntness, 
searching his face for any betraying signs. Edwards 
laughed lightly. Somehow, its sheer indifference irri¬ 
tated his friend, and he turned away, pretending to scan 
the panorama of lavender-shrouded buildings below the 
hill, their bristling, ugly tops, touched with resplendent 
glory so that their angular outlines were softened by the 
magic. 

“Pretty nice, all that, isn’t it?” Edwards had come 
up behind him. Together they stepped outside for a 
better view. A bell rang melodiously from a temple 
somewhere near; the pungency of incense clung to the 

air. 

“Hamu Amida Butsu”—Devout voices were inton¬ 
ing, in a soothing, monotonous chant. 

Deering forgot his surroundings in his abstraction. 
His senses all ax once leapt at the thought that soon he 
would see Grace. He had conquered all limitations of 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


19 


distance that had separated him; it was almost unbe¬ 
lievable. He was near her, with only a tangible barrier 
between them. He had all of the impatience of passion 
to subdue to talk coherently as Edwards plied him with 
many inquiries concerning many mutual interests at 
home. It was very difficult when his whole being was 
seething in a foment of love and eagerness, and he 
counted the minutes until he could be with her. 

Flower Garden considered herself favored by the gods. 
Her danna san was very kind to her, giving her money 
which he never counted to purchase her wardrobe and 
pay for all of her worldly prayers for happiness. She 
fingered absently an inexpensive little trinket he had 
bestowed on her, which her credulity had magnified into 
great value. Surely her danna san loved her if he could 
so generously reward her. Surreptitiously her little 
black eyes followed every move of the Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner who had just arrived, admiring his propor¬ 
tions and the deferential manner he evinced toward her. 
There had often been guests in the tiny bird-nest cot¬ 
tage, but they had laughed at her and said things to her 
danna san at which he would get up and angrily walk 
up and down the small floor space, his face clouded, 
with rising color; and he would then be very curt and 
cross with her, sending her off on errands that were fic¬ 
titious. 

Perhaps new danna san would also need a wife while 
he stayed in Japan; if so, she knew where he could get 
one without any delay; and she was the best that ever 
could be found, as she had much experience in knowing 
exactly what would please him, for she had had three 


20 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


other danna san. And surely that was recommendation 
in itself to any Honorable Mr. Foreigner. 

Deering on his part was not unaware of her stealthy 
scrutiny of him, but he did not suspect the matrimonial 
tangle her little brain was winding around him. And 
he tried to reconcile her duties with those of the clever 
little housewife she appeared to be, following Edwards 
with interest into the kitchen, amazed at her dexterity 
and alacrity, as she darted around like some unique 
humming bird in her sparkling kimono, and broiled 
American chops dexterously over the toy charcoal fire 
sunken in the floor. 

She silently followed Deering out after they had 
enjoyed their European dinner, which had been fault¬ 
lessly served, plucking timidly at his coat sleeve while 
Edwards’ back was turned as he sought his tobacco jars 
and pipes. 

“Honorable Mr. Foreigner have nice home like this.” 
She looked frankly into his eyes, holding him in surprise 
as much at her abrupt speech as at her proximity. 
“Lots of girls like danna san. They treat Japanese girls 
very, very good, and buy them many rings and kimonos. 
And they give them plenty of food to eat, always the 
same as danna san eats. I know White Butterfly. . . . 
She is a much lady, for she has lived in many big places, 
and always with a different danna san . No one so fine 
as Butterfly. . . She knows so much how to please 

her danna san —and one never in a book can learn it.” 

“Off, Flower Garden,” Edwards cried goodnaturedly, 
pushing her gently out of the room by the arm. “Hon¬ 
orable Mr. Foreigner does not want any Japanese wife; 
go to your dishes, and here is a yen for a new hair 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


21 


pin.” He tossed a coin lightly on the floor and she 
quickly picked it up in childish delight. 

“She would make a perfect Japanese wife for danna 
san/' Flower Garden cried as she gracefully retreated, 
persuaded by the temptation of a new bauble. “White 
Butterfly always puts her danna san first, and always 
does she not understand the world at all. Her voice 
is very gentle even when she is angry, and she writes 
very beautiful verses, too.” 


CHAPTER II 


Summing up the events of the day, his visit to the 
Embassy, and his meeting with Grace, Deering made 
two deductions which left him greatly disturbed. One 
was that Grace was unmistakably ill at ease at seeing 
him and that Major Lynde, an elderly asthmatic indi¬ 
vidual addicted to low collars and iced beverages, was 
apparently persona grata there. This surprised him, 
being aware of Grace’s exactions in masculine standards, 
and it was not jealousy alone that prevented him from 
finding anything that could appeal to sentiment in the 
Major’s expansive presence, his over-flushed face and 
indolent little eyes. Yet, looking at him suddenly, Deer¬ 
ing was peculiarly impressed by a hint of sadness, a 
meditative abstraction that took him away from all 
present; but such lapses on the Major’s part were rare, 
and he shook off his retrospections hastily, perhaps, 
though, with a greater recurrence than ever to his cups. 
He had explained his visit as being solely for pleasure 
and rest, and acquainted with relatives of the Ambassa¬ 
dor in his native town, he had been accepted quite as 
one of the household. 

Deering had been visibly disappointed in the recep¬ 
tion Grace gave him. It was not over a year ago, before 
the hegira of the Dentons toward Japan, that their boy 
and girl friendship had seemingly culminated in the 


22 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


23 


usual romance; at least, so they thought at the time, and 
with Deering the belief had grown until it had been his 
protection against small temptations since she left. For 
love likes nothing better than sacrifices—which often 
are in vain. 

Chagrined now, his pride suffering under her cold¬ 
ness, he relapsed into an indifference that made him 
seem as the casual stranger she wished him to be. There 
had been a few minutes alone, after the first surprise 
of greetings, as he had been announced by a native serv¬ 
ant very formally, and incorrectly, as a French general 
who was seeking an audience with the Ambassador at the 
same time; but when Grace saw him ushered into the 
drawing room, she stood for the second very still, her 
face alternately red and white, her fragile porcelain 
beauty glowing and paling; but there was no actual emo¬ 
tion of pleasure or love reflected in it. He was pre¬ 
sented to the family circle, Cousin Em recalling to him, 
between puffs at her cigarette, that his bulldog chased 
her pet Angora up a tree, and he had retorted that it 
perhaps evened up matters, for Waddles had been badly 
scratched in the face; this, and other banal pleasantries 
got him over the first awkwardness of his call, for he 
had gradually become aware of a cold subtlety in Grace’s 
demeanor. It seemed like a protest against any pre¬ 
sumption on his part in loving her. And he chafed 
under the falsity of his position, for he had come over 
a thousand miles solely to see her, expectant of announc¬ 
ing their engagement, as an incentive for a desired 
triumph in business. 

His pride was affronted, and it succeeded in arousing 
a tiny flame of rebellion against her hauteur. As the 


24 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


guests, with members of the family, straggled desul¬ 
torily into the garden—towards the Shinto Temple at 
one end, where Mrs. Denton loved to have tea served 
on sunny days—he lagged behind until the Major’s 
broad blue back made a convenient screen. Tie caught 
Grace’s hand impulsively as she passed with cushions 
for the stone benches. She withdrew it hastily, as if 
fearful that his indiscretion might have been witnessed. 

“Grace!” Her inexplicable action hurt him more 
than her indifference. 

“We’re not children any longer, Jack,” she said 
primly, moving on. 

“That’s exactly why it is serious,” he protested hotly, 
in defense. 

“We’re both grown up.” He did not attempt to re¬ 
peat the offense; yet he had longed for the cool velvet 
of her hands, the satin of her hair to stroke, all the 
long tedious trip. “I wouldn’t for the world hold you 
to a promise you didn’t mean, dear,” he added gently, 
surprised at his own calmness. 

“I’m sure Dad would never consent—now,” she said, 
hesitatingly, not looking at him. “We’re both very 
young, and things have changed. And neither of us is 
sure we’ve made the right choice-” 

“Oh, Grace-” he started to protest, but his vehem¬ 

ence was checked by her expression of displeasure as 
she rushed by in the gloom of the corridor, as if intent 
on ending the interview. 

It kept him awake, thinking of it, far into the strange 
Japanese night, while he turned restlessly on the hard 
floor, unaccustomed to the futon or coverings, donned 
like a reversed coat; and the uncomfortable wooden 




MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


25 


makura, or pillow, that resembled a miniature guillo¬ 
tine. There had been no time to send out for the narrow 
American bed that most Europeans use, and Deering 
had rejected Edwards’ hospitable profferment of his own. 

The incessant whirr of insects, wings beating against 
the paper night lanterns, rasping noises of the croaking 
bullfrogs, the flapping of invading bats—he coul<J dis¬ 
tinguish most of them, but the sounds were magnified by 
the stillness of the night. 

He resolved not to beguile himself with self pity; his 
disappointment might be a necessary spur to success, 
and he would need all of the fortitude he was capable 
of to endure his experiment for a year. Like all loyal 
sojourners, he would pay his devoirs regularly at the 
Embassy, so that Grace would never suspect that her 
actions could so affect him. Her capriciousness might 
have arisen from totally different causes. At any rate, 
since he could not remedy matters, he must make an 
effort to rise above it. She could never have really cared 
for him, or there would be some last lingering spark of 
affection to which he could appeal. But he was too proud 
to accept charity in love. 

The novelty of new surroundings supported him in 
his decision. There was little time for thinking, in es¬ 
tablishing himself in his duties. Edwards, failing to 
impress him with the advantages of possessing a hired 
wife, lost no time in securing a bright Satsuma lad from 
the hills to take charge of the toy house he rented for 
him, across from his, so near that the morning saluta¬ 
tion of ohayo could be whispered from piazza to piazza 
without being overheard. Fuji’s proficiency covered 
little English, but much ambition, as represented in 


26 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“First Lessons in Speaking,” and a limited acquaintance 
with cooking; but it sufficed, for Deering was suffering 
too much in those first few days, heart sick over his self- 
deception, to notice what Fuji set before him. And it 
was all the same to him whether he ate the honorable 
rice or the less honorable bean curds. Fuji, knowing 
little English, was addicted to effusive epistles concern¬ 
ing trivial subjects, and if the Honorable Mr. Foreigner 
was interested in having pickled fish for his dinner, it 
generally consumed two pages of stationery to convey 
his desire to please him. 

What Deering enjoyed the most was exploring the 
fascinating streets and parks. And Fuji acted in a 
different capacity in this, for he had once been a ’rick¬ 
shaw man for tourists, and knew exactly where to take 
him. Sometimes Edwards accompanied them, but 
there were many occasions when he begged off, as Flower 
Garden had asked him to take her to some Matsuri or 
festival, and as her small existence depended on these 
trivial joys, he had not the heart to refuse her. 

Edwards had been for many years—relieved by trips 
home—i n the East. Perhaps that accounted for his in¬ 
dolence as to former exacting scruples. And while he 
was not remiss in any of the social obligations demanded 
of him, he made no effort to create any. He called once 
a week at the Embassy, in keeping with the code; he 
attended the Imperial garden parties when they occurred 
in April at cherry blossom time, and in November when 
the chrysanthemums were in bloom; and he had the 
entrez to the famous Maple Club, the Koyokwan, which 
exclusive organization is open only to men of the high¬ 
est standing, and guests; and he introduced Deering 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


27 


there, with as much punctiliousness as he had asked that 
his name be listed for invitations to the Imperial parties. 

Unable to resist the spell of the land, he temporized, 
drifting with the human tide; and in this, his consular 
connection gave him much opportunity. For he spent 
most of it with Flower Garden, amused in spite of him¬ 
self by the quaint little person; and as the weather grew 
warm he took her to the hills, to Kobe, to avoid the hot, 
steaming streets; or farther inland, to some historic 
shrine. Often there were sails past the rice fields, where 
barelegged girls worked with the coolies in blue coats, 
in the water ridges; and she was glad her lot was easier 
than theirs, and would flash a little grateful smile at 
him. 

Deering soon learned the way alone, and often after 
his immaculately prepared meal, which was served on 
an American table, with chairs to sit on—much to the 
enjoyment of the Satsuma, who practised sitting on each 
in his master’s absence, to accustom himself to the 
height—he drifted down the hill, his pipe in his mouth, 
meditating, always thinking. But the exotic lights of 
the Ginza, that great pulse of human life and emotion, 
red, green, vividly orange, made him forget it all, and 
he grew to have a very personal acquaintance with the 
stall keepers and the parchment-faced sellers of treasures 
in the shops. One night he stumbled aimlessly into a 
place he had overlooked before, attracted by its gleam¬ 
ing coppers and the tinged yellow richness of ancient 
ivories. A shriveled old man, aged in appearance, hob¬ 
bled towards the entrance, saluting him in deference, 
for the bigger the sale one wants to make the more polite 
he must be. But Deering evaded making any purchases, 


28 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


for he required nothing himself, and it would be stretch¬ 
ing whatever friendship still existed between him and 
Grace to dispatch any gift to her. But he was interested 
in the garrulous old man’s intelligence and his talk 
which included a very lucid vocabulary of English and 
a definite knowledge of dollars and cents. High up on 
a platform or narrow gallery the chief treasures of the 
shop were kept; the old man, rubbing his thin honey 
hands, withered finely as the skin of an apple touched 
by its final frost, pointed silently to these. He related 
their history and the age of each. Then he made a 
gesture to one, representing a beautiful maiden, with 
her hair wreathed with cherry blossoms, and the finely 
painted kimono showing a similar tracery. 

“That is my great treasure,” he murmured fervently, 
making a little obeisance as he muttered a prayer for 
thankfulness in possessing it, to Buddha. “It is the 
great Hishigawa.” 

The name meant nothing to Deering. He had a 
limited acquaintance with art of any kind, beyond the 
school of a few moderns. But he admitted its charm, 
although more intent on the tangible merits of the 
ivories. The old shopkeeper followed him patiently, 
repeating his persuasions. The great painter, Hishigawa 
Kichibei, had been dead many years—200, by counting 
the Matsuri of the cherry blossoms. He painted people 
so real that they came to life when they wanted to. He 
turned his button-black eyes earnestly on Deering. 
“There was always one beautiful maiden he painted,” 
he said, pointing toward the painting again. “Always 
but one face. See, there she is again in another frame. 
She was of his world and not today. He painted birds, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


29 


too; and in mating time, when the earth bird sang of 
love, it stepped out of the frame. I sell it, very cheap.” 

Deering nodded, not impressed. The picture was un¬ 
commonly good, but it was almost as big as his entire 
house, and were he foolish enough to purchase it, there 
was no place to hang it. He shook his head, laugh¬ 
ingly, in protest, compromising on buying some tiny 
effigies, the gods of luck, and stepped out again into the 
radiant street. The gently swaying colored lanterns 
added to the mystery, the glamor; a whiff of incense, 
borne through the open door of a temple, made a potent 
fragrance. The patter of clogs, women with their curi¬ 
ous-eyed children strapped like a knapsack to their backs, 
the pitiful wail of the aged shampooers crying for pat¬ 
ronage—there was no other place in the world that 
offered such contrasts to the eye and ear. 

In the stalls opening off the streets, people stood 
drinking tiny cups of Hippon-cha, a tea of a poisonous 
pale green color; musicians, picking the strings of the 
koto, or of the samisen, made discordant noises; the tea 
houses were gaily illuminated and thronged by crowds 
of pleasure seekers. There was life, big, bustling, demo¬ 
cratic around him, brushing against him. But he had 
never felt so lonely in all of his existence as he did now 
in this strange, bewildering city, thrown so unexpectedly 
and acutely on his self resources. 

Irresolute, he hesitated; then he recklessly purchased 
a box of French candies for Cousin Em—or the Pomer¬ 
anians might enjoy it—he excused his act with feeble 
satire; and he hailed a rickshaw for the Embassy. Owing 
to the presence of guests, the dinner, always formal, had 
been later than usual in being served that night; but 


30 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


the ladies had already withdrawn to the garden, and 
Taka, one of the house servants, was flying excitedly 
around asking for naps for their honorable shoulders, 
when he meant wraps—much to the bewilderment of 
Mrs. Denton’s Irish maid, who insisted that he meant 
“nips.” 

Deering joined them, glad of Cousin Em’s friendly 
usurpation of him by her side, and her open apprecia¬ 
tion of the gift. He strolled along the camellia paths 
with her, watching the leaping of the golden carp in 
the fish pond, without which no Japanese garden is 
complete, and the garden at the Embassy possessed this, 
m common with many other unique features, which 
gave it much distinction. 

Cousin Em was a comfort for any wound; for she 
had reached that age when a woman considers com¬ 
fort before vanity, and preferred flat heels to high ones. 
And this might be taken as a simile of her philosophy 
in life. She had been married once, and, as she always 
apologized, “when very young,” as if insinuating that 
the indiscretion belonged only to the blunders of youth. 
But her husband, always considering her comfort before 
his own, politely departed before she had grown to tire 
of him and his precise ways and rhetorical phrases. As¬ 
suaging the demands of convention by a three-months’ 
adoption of bombazine, Cousin Em had quickly checked 
up his estate, and after satisfying the requirements of 
propriety, she recklessly squandered her money in an 
elaborate wardrobe, which she could ill afford, and con¬ 
tent in her lavender and grey creations, took up her 
residence abroad, to compensate for the years she had 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


31 


let pass without enjoyment. She had indeed been mar¬ 
ried when very young; in fact, she was barely eighteen 
when Townsend Forbes, forty and a bachelor, proposed 
to her at a cotillion and rushed her into the bonds of 
matrimony within two months. That was always his 
method with her, the whirlwind, and as rapidly he 
passed out of her life—and her memory. 

Wine must have its effervescence—and she had had 
hers. But there was no visible manifestation of the 
lessons she perhaps had learned, excepting the occasional 
glint of a silver thread in her glossy brown hair or the 
deflection of her mouth when in repose, trained to sup¬ 
press feeling, to endure—those burdensome undeserv¬ 
ing humilities man and custom have thrust on woman. 
She had come to Japan simply because she had no alter¬ 
native ; for her independence eked out with her limited 
fortune. Her relatives had selected her from among 
several possible choices, simply because, as Grace aptly 
expressed it: “Cousin Em fits in so comfortably.” 

The quiet air of appropriation she assumed with the 
Major was obvious, and the most casual observer could 
not fail to detect it. It did not escape Deering’s eyes, 
nor was he unaware either of the frown of annoyance 
on Grace’s face as her relative usurped the corpulent 
army man’s services and attention, creating duties, with 
feminine sagacity, to keep him occupied, without his 
own realization of the little game in which he was play¬ 
ing the pawn. 


CHAPTEK III 


O-Sakurado, Cherry Blossom, lived not far down a 
strip of yellow road through the Cherryfield Gate—a 
road traversed for the most part by clumsy wooden carts, 
or the wide-wheeled trucks of the big industrial houses. 
Stony it was, save here and there where a ragged fringe 
of willow trunks had their sandy beds; often ugly, 
strange-smelling shops fronted on it, and far off, a yel¬ 
low rim on the uneven horizon, clouds of dust indicated 
the strenuous tilling of the tiny symmetrical gardens. 
For here the truckmen planted and tended and gar¬ 
nered, and sometimes the richness of blooming plants 
sent fragrance through the air; but more often the odors 
were repugnant and sickening. 

But Yuri, Lily-mother, could not afford a better loca¬ 
tion, because of their limited resources, and as it was 
necessary, in order to keep the roof over their heads, that 
each must work, it mattered little where they lived, since 
it was chiefly for sleeping protection that a home was 
needed. Hawaka, the son, made no attempt to support 
the two women, wasting his time at gaming resorts, and 
he had no scruples against appropriating whatever 
money they made, when the mood seized him. 

There was one other member of the small household, 
who served them in meekness and docility, because of 
the old samurai grandfather whom her own parent had 


32 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


33 


faithfully served. Tradition plays an important part 
in the customs of the lower classes, and once a lord, 
always one. Chu Chu received no recompense for her 
duties; in fact, she did not expect it, for at her age one 
was thankful for a home. She was no longer young, no 
longer slender, and therefore no longer agreeable. In¬ 
versely, she had possessed all of those requisites at one 
time, in the heyday of youth, but time is no respecter 
of person; and age, which robbed her of her good looks, 
deprived her as well of her good nature. , It was habit 
chiefly which kept her loyal. 

* The spacious grounds of the Moroshito silk industry 
edged in the direction of the terraced slopes of 
the rice fields. There were two reasons for this: chiefly, 
because when the precious silk worms are ready to cast 
off the liquid which makes the fiber silk, noises of any 
kind, or a shock, will cause them to stop, and therefore 
serious losses will result. The noises of the city could 
not penetrate this far. Though blind, these insects have 
acute hearing, and employees must go in stocking feet 
at this time, lest even the creaking of the clogs affects 
them. The other consideration was because of the dense 
growth of mulberry trees in the neighborhood, for it 
represented the food, which faithful attendants must 
assiduously carry to the bombyx mori, the silk worm. 

Here it was that Cherry Blossom worked, every day, 
and the scant pittance that she received in sen repre¬ 
sented ten cents. 

Among the old women and girls employed, none was 
so conscientious as the Yuri-mother’s girl. Patience 
and repression are the natural heritage of the race, for 
women, and although the very sight of the ugly little 


34 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


writhing worms filled her with aversion, no one sus¬ 
pected it, and her fingers were as deft and careful as if 
she were performing a labor of love. The pathetic 
existence of these industrious tiny workers, their trag¬ 
edy of life, in a dim way touched her sensitive heart. 
Every change, each passing evolution of the worms, called 
the univoltine, producing only one new generation each 
year, she knew thoroughly. She had been taught to 
select the larger ones for breeding purposes, for it con¬ 
sequently enlarged the cocoon. Domestication had 
robbed the silk worm, or moth, of its natural charac¬ 
teristics, for though having wings, so long had man 
carried its food to it that it had lost the trick of flying. 
And having no need to use its eyesight for discovering 
its own sustenance, vision, too, left it. Careful protec¬ 
tion from the light, in dim rooms, had succeeded in 
achieving a species that was white or cream color, hav¬ 
ing no similarity to the wild brown genus from which 
it descended. 

Cherry Blossom was conversant with every detail of 
their brief span. The worm had its four significant 
periods, as the seasons. The tiny eggs, yellow at first, 
suggested turnip seed, and it required many thousand 
to make an ounce. The Honorable Moroshito, who often 
unceremoniously inspected the rooms, almost as if hop¬ 
ing to surprise his workers in some gross negligence, so 
unannounced were his visits, paid greatest attention to 
the turnip seed eggs, studying them carefully to see if 
they grew blue-grey, for that meant that he might rea¬ 
sonably expect greater profits, for the eggs were then 
fertile. In June, when the iris fetes began, the eggs 
would be hatched, perhaps by artificial means; often, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


35 


some of tlie workers carried them wrapped in the folds 
of their garments, near the body, where the temperature 
of the flesh kept them at even heat. This was not so 
bad in itself, at the first stages; but when tiny wriggling 
little worms began to creep out, in the larvae or cater¬ 
pillar stage, one was not so patient, in spite of the philos¬ 
ophy taught by the great Yeken Kaibara, in the Onna 
Daigaku, or Book of Greater Learning for Women—im¬ 
pressing one with the wisdom of always acknowledging 
her own unworthiness and faults; and to eradicate the 
foolishness that is born in women. But even the great 
gods knew that women were afraid of worms. 

However, to nervously cry out loud would attract a 
harsh rebuke from her superior, Miss Sunrise, and she 
might forfeit this opportunity of labor. 

Fate chooses singular weapons of attack; there is 
nothing accidental in her location or campaign. Some¬ 
times she uses a golf stick, a riding crop, or the bow 
and arrow; it is all the same in the end. 

Even as the human offspring, the baby caterpillars 
are entirely helpless, and must be fed; one must have a 
steady wrist for this operation, in holding out the mul¬ 
berry leaves on shallow trays, so they can attach them¬ 
selves greedily underneath, where they noisily suck the 
juice. In a few days they would be ready to shed their 
first skins, and there would be three other moultings to 
follow. Cherry Blossom took much care to see that 
the fuzzy, repulsive objects did not tumble off in their 
avariciousness. But it happened that just at this mo¬ 
ment of her concentration the Honorable Moroshito ap¬ 
peared directly beside her like a silent apparition, and 


36 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


with a feebly repressed cry of alarm, her wrist trembled 
and one of the worms fell off. 

A sharp, stinging slap in her face punished her for 
her carelessness; the hot tears sprang to her eyes so that 
everything was blurred, but she tried to remember the 
teachings of Yeken Kaibara, and repeated over and over 
her own unworthiness. The lordly head of the house 
passed on, eager to unearth delinquencies in other em¬ 
ployees, admonishing her harshly as to future trans¬ 
gressions. The tears splashed uncontrolled on the shal¬ 
low trays, as she faced this calamity; she was shamed. 
Off in the other end of the dim room a group of girls 
tittered over her plight, and drew aloof, whispering 
words of criticism. 

“O-Sakurado,” a voice said softly behind her. 

Cherry Blossom turned her head cautiously, fearing 
a new form of punishment. Shiko, the son of the aug¬ 
ust Moroshito, who sometimes accompanied his parent 
on an inspection, stood beside her, his little glittering 
eyes turned in admiration on her. He put his hand 
lightly on her arm, beyond the tray of the worms. “I 
hope my honorable father has not hurt Cherry Blossom ? 
My honorable father loves the worms very much. I, 
Shiko, do not. To me, they are always these horrible, 
repulsive things—I never think more of them.” 

Cherry Blossom forgot her flushed, stinging cheek, 
where the august hand had fallen. She looked up, stead¬ 
ily regarding Shiko, not caring for his friendship, but 
glad that the group across should see his overtures. She 
shared his antipathy to worms; he was not at all im¬ 
pressed by the thousands of dollars in profits they 
meant. They produced the great wealth that secured 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


37 


for Papa Moroshito, Mama Moroshito and for him, their 
dissipated son, the enviable position they occupied, and 
which was augmented by the boasted ancestry of the 
elder as being of samurai birth. 

“They make the beautiful silk.” She defended them, 
mechanically. He laughed lightly. 

“Some one must always work,” he disposed of their 
industry with indifference, eager to have her continue 
talking to him. More than once, stalking obediently be¬ 
hind his father on their daily rounds, he had noticed 
the bronze head among the polished raven blackness of 
the other girls, and had paused to watch her graceful 
movements until a stern command from his parent re¬ 
minded him of caution. But the habit of loitering grew 
upon him, and instead of being bored at the suggestion 
of accompanying his parent through the working rooms, 
Shiko delighted him by creating opportunities for doing 
so. The honorable Moroshito was indeed pleased; the 
gods had been propitious in bestowing on him a male 
descendant, a son to perpetuate the great name and con¬ 
tinue the greater Imperial Ancestor worship, as tradi¬ 
tion demands. He controlled one of the most profitable 
industries in the vicinity, and with both father and son 
co-operating in it, worldly ambitions of achieving mil¬ 
lions filled his head. Blinded by his own delusions, he 
encouraged Shiko in his newly-created interest in the 
business, and allowed himself greater indulgences of self- 
aggrandizement among his fellow-men, acquiring a more 
elaborate kuruma, or rickshaw, with which to indicate 
his increased wealth. 

Unconscious of the growing passion she was arousing, 
Cherry Blossom performed her manifold tasks, day by 


38 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


day, giving the worms all of her attention, for she did 
not intend to merit any more penalties, as if she real¬ 
ized that the ugly fuzzy insect was of much greater value 
than she. Peeping under the trays, she knew exactly 
what change was affecting them, for, nature-wise, they 
stopped eating as it grew time to shed their skins, ris¬ 
ing expectantly on their hind legs, and remaining in this 
cramped attitude for two days. 

The room was wide, dimly lighted by two screened 
shojis; it contained probably thousands of worms, old 
enough now to masticate the leaves instead of sucking 
the juice; and the noise they made was like that of fall¬ 
ing rain as they hungrily fed, exhausted from the effort 
of emerging from the final skin. 

She did not encourage Shiko’s presence, for she must 
exercise the greatest care at this period, as they were 
in readiness to spin the liquid silk, or fiber, the last 
stage but one before they reached maturity—and death. 

Then, too, new trays must be prepared for the on¬ 
coming growth of worms, every day fresh leaves be 
picked, anticipating their needs; and the trays of the 
advanced worms required diligent watching, so that the 
industrious tiny workers would not be prevented by any 
interruption in consummating their object. It was all 
a profound lesson in activity and patience. 

Shutting her eyes to their repulsive appearance, 
Cherry Blossom tried to find interest in the plan of their 
limited lives, provided by a higher power. In stocking 
feet, she tended them in the darkened room, while they 
cast off the fiber, which, hardening in the air, later 
became the shining, glistening silks worn by the aristo- 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


39 


cratic women in tlie upper walks of life—paths which 
she never dared aspire to tread. 

Never a noise disturbed them, she saw to that; but the 
angry thunder gods were not so considerate, and often 
ent terrifying sounds, shaking the walls of the buildings, 
and thereby causing heavy losses to the firm. There 
was no way to prevent this, but there was always a hint 
of blame attached to her because of it—and only the 
wisdom of Yeken Kaibara, as he emphasized to women 
their many faults, gave her strength to continue. But 
Shiko’s passion could not be regulated by the cautions 
necessary to the progress of the worms, any more than 
it could be governed according to the book of the Greater 
Learning for Women; and it burned and flamed until 
his puny strength could no longer withhold it; and it 
burst into conflagration before her the very day that the 
vast army of worms began on their cocoons, deposited 
in neat rows on the bushy tufts on the trays. 

Cherry Blossom dared not listen to his ardent ad¬ 
vances; if she failed in her duties, she would lose the 
very necessary ten cents a day which contributed to the 
family’s support. The worms demanded her incessant 
attention, as slowly each enclosed itself in its white tent 
or cocoon, until the secretions were exhausted. 

This was the most important crisis of its evolution, 
and more than once the Honorable Moroshito had scolded 
her for not being vigilant in the care of her charges at 
this period, while the caterpillar changed to a chrysalis, 
for its sleep of nearly a month. Afterwards, free of the 
cocoon by its own efforts, it remains quiet until its wings 
dry. Then it proceeds to its final mating, which lasts 
several hours. And she must be very careful to collect 


40 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


the different deposits of eggs, laid a few hours apart, for 
they represent a vast number of yen to the exacting 
head of the industry. 

Trembling with fear lest the imperious Moroshito 
should arrive to witness Shiko’s impassioned declaration, 
Cherry Blossom repulsed his advances, only increasing 
the intensity of his emotion. The echo of a footstep, 
silent, stealthy, succeeded in what she had been unable 
to accomplish. Already, completing the cycle of their 
industrious existence, after their mating and laying 
eggs, the moths were dying. To her, it was the allegory 
of all life, and a cloud of sadness rested on her face as 
she carefully picked out the dead insects, watching, like 
Atrophis, for others. 

“O-Sakurado—Cherry Blossom.” Shiko forgot his 
caution again, as the step passed by. He clutched at 
the folds of her kimono, kissing it over and over. She 
was fairer than any geisha he had ever had. Jerked 
back by the grasp on. her garments, Cherry Blossom 
tripped, falling heavily against a tray of fresh worms 
emerging from their second skin. Almost as if by magic 
the angry countenance of the Honorable Moroshito was 
upon them, his arm raised to strike her, while a wave 
of coarse laughter came from the girls, busy around the 
room. 

Shiko, his little eyes blazing with fury, jumped 
quickly to his feet, agilely interposing his body between 
his irate father and the girl. His thin, angular face 
was white with suppressed rage. He put one arm pro- 
tectingly around Cherry Blossom, who cowered behind 
him. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


41 


“You strike Shiko when yon strike Her," he said, 
panting for breath. “No hand, even that of my honor¬ 
able father, can strike the woman Shiko loves.” 

His words, more than his actions, disarmed his aug' 
ust parent, who, in a fury of mingled surprise and in¬ 
dignation, took a step back, his hand falling as if para¬ 
lyzed at his side. He stared at Shiko, unbelieving the 
words, unable to fathom this unexpected revelation. 

“She is discharged,” he said, in menace, clenching 
his fist. 

“Quite so,” said Shiko calmly. “It is not fitting that 
the wife of Shiko should work in his parent’s business. 
Tomorrow, I say, we make our plans for the wedding. 
I don’t care about the old worms. I can go to America. 
You are too old to get another son. La, la.” 

He moved away, his arm supporting Cherry Blossom, 
who hid her face in shame; yet, withal, a tiny rebellious 
feeling against the wisdom of humility and self-efface¬ 
ment struggled within her, and she felt an indestruct¬ 
ible feminine rejoicing over the whispering circle of 
workers, as they saw the evidence of her lordly lover. 
For the last time they had derided her cheap little 
kimonos and worn-out getas. After the grand wedding, 
she would ride to the works in a richly embellished 
kuruma, drawn by a big brown satsuma, and rustle her 
silk kimono over the floor on a round of inspection with 
Shiko. 

The Honorable Moroshito stared after his son, his 
mouth open in amazement, his senses bewildered. He 
must propitiate the gods with expensive offerings, for 
it was what he had always feared. The lure of the 
foreign country, where money was so easily made, had 


42 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


more than once tempted Shiko, hut he had persuaded 
him to remain by means of permitting various extrava¬ 
gances; and nature had made it impossible for him to 
have further offspring. Tears of helplessness welled up 
in his eyes, that he should be treated with such disre¬ 
spect by a son, he of samurai birth. It was the most 
bitter moment of his well-regulated life as his own child 
defied him. Pleadings, importunities, threats—he had 
resorted to all of them before, when Shiko’s will had 
clashed with his, defying traditions and the basic prin¬ 
ciples of his religion. They would be futile now, as 
before. The gods who punished filial defiance would 
interfere; he would first appease them by acts of wor¬ 
ship and offerings—and wait till they acted. In this 
his faith was supreme. 

Miss Sunrise stared after the son as he departed with 
Cherry Blossom, who clung helplessly to his arm, still 
dazed by the unexpected protection and his declarations. 
She nodded her glistening coal-black head in dire proph¬ 
ecy to her audience of envious girls, whose ridicule of 
their poorer companion was subdued by her good for¬ 
tune. To be loved by the son of the great Moroshito, 
dissipated though he was known to be, assumed an 
entirely different aspect, which relegated her to a plane 
already higher than theirs. Marriage would make her 
an aristocrat. 

“She’ll be his geisha before she’s ever his wife,” the 
Honorable Sunrise predicted. “Come, sisters, to work. 
We all can’t marry Lord Moroshito’s son. We must 
keep him rich so she will be happy.” She added a note 
of malice to her jest, and jerked the innocent little 
worms with mild ferocity in their trays, vexed witfy 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


43 


Shiko that he had not noticed the abundant mass of 
hair she possessed, and made love to her instead. 

Shiko had no intention of allowing the gods to inter¬ 
fere with his plans. He was a product of Hew Japan, 
doubting traditions and defying parental laws. He had 
a slight familiarity with English mannerisms, and often 
affected a monocle, which sat upon him ludicrously. The 
beauty of the little silk worm worker was different from 
anything he had ever seen, and her pink and white 
prettiness contrasted markedly with the saffron-yello^ 
skin of the girls he knew. When she raised her pansy- 
blue eyes and looked at him, passion tingled within him 
and he trembled to think that he possessed her. 

Cherry Blossom accepted him without question, some¬ 
what flattered that the son of the lordly house should 
seek her out for his favor; beyond that, it was not 
necessary to pretend love and happiness, for she had 
never known either, and therefore could not be unhappy 
from lacking them. Marriage was the greatest career 
of the girls of her land and she shared the ambition, 
though dreading the consequential life thereafter under 
her august mother-in-law’s mandates. She did not fear 
that her future husband would hand her the “Three- 
lines-and-a-half,” the old Mi-Kudari-han, that aggres¬ 
sively polite written intimation which tells the wife to 
return to the home of her parents if she failed to please 
his mother. Youth made her sanguine in her expecta¬ 
tions. She overlooked the possibility of the worldly 
aspirations the Moroshitos entertained for their only 
offspring. Practically, Cherry Blossom belonged to the 
lower classes, and for that reason had received a much 
more liberal education than that accorded the daughters 


44 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


of those of higher standing. In the terakova, the public 
schools, where she had received her learning, she had 
been taught arithmetic, and the doctrine of the Onna 
Kaigaku was read to them daily; she enjoyed more per¬ 
sonal liberties than the girls of the aristocratic fami¬ 
lies, who were impressed with the fact that they could 
never hope to be the mental equals of their husbands, and 
in whom every vestige of individuality and independ¬ 
ence was destroyed. Neither could they expect to be 
able to advise him, or even amuse him. Thus the husband 
could find his pleasures elsewhere with geisha, openly 
and without criticism, as they were trained from early 
infancy to provide entertainment. 

To be the prospective daughter-in-law of a proud 
family had also disadvantages. It was not permitted 
her to continue working, nor could Yuri arrange to 
apply herself to the daily tasks she pursued, in a clay 
potter’s yard, where she painted vivid colors on the sur¬ 
faces before they were fired. She had little skill, but 
for that matter she received little money; but a few 
cents a day could be stretched very far under her 
frugal guidance. And it was an honorable calling. But 
customs are inexorable, and although the half-blind old 
potter implored her not to leave him just as the tourists 
were beginning to arrive, she had no alternative, and 
he warned her then that Buddha would shrivel her soul 
if she left him without any other assistant; and she 
need never come back. 

The humble little family was suddenly raised to 
prominence in the neighborhood by this connection. 
People who had ignored them came fawning for favor. 
Tradesmen begged for their patronage, and even 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


45 


Hawaka grew arrogant over it and ran np innumerable 
debts in honor of it. 

The Honorable Moroshito made no visible protest 
against the advance of the wedding plans, relying on 
celestial assistance to prevent it. He even permitted 
the customary observances to be made, consenting agree¬ 
ably to making the necessary calls, loaded with opulent 
gifts as required by tradition and custom, which should 
make the engagement legally binding. 

Servants in impressive livery had even delivered ex¬ 
pensive cards announcing the day of their visit to the 
little hut, and one could never complain that he had 
failed in a meticulous attention to his obligations. 

Across the gravel yard lived Timi, who had been 
educated in America and had brought back strange, 
rebellious ideas which made old women shake their 
heads disapprovingly and darkly hint at the malediction 
of the gods. Timi’s father, who had been both parents 
to her for many years, was just as much condemned be¬ 
cause of his stiff white collars and European clothes, 
and the breezy newspaper he published carried many 
warnings to his lethargic fellow men for not following 
the progress of civilization. 

Timi’s education had broadened her horizon of life 
and caused her to throw into the discard the supersti¬ 
tions of her race, man-made and man-worshipped in 
order to govern the credulous. 

Timi had bobbed hair, and the freedom she had 
learned was indicated as well by her masculine trousers 
and golf stockings, as in her frank, modern views. 


46 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Vanity and commonsense were agreeably combined in 
her, for sbe still enjoyed the dubious pleasure of draw¬ 
ing forth a smart little vanity case, and “making up,” 
lining her lips a shade redder as the mood urged, or 
powdering the tip of her nose. Not that Timi really 
cared for these artificial props of beauty, but she liked 
the indulgences of vanity. 

Very modern indeed, was the little bamboo house 
where she dwelt, with its day beds, chairs and tables. 
Gone was the ancestral Butsudan, the miniature Bud¬ 
dhist shrine. In its place a very brilliant red plush 
album occupied the place of honor, and contained pic¬ 
tures of departed relatives instead of meaningless names, 
with a summary of departed virtues. And the pagan 
offerings of rice and tea, and branches of the flowering 
Shikimi tree were not seen. 

It was West replacing East. The bobbed hair, the 
trousers, the vanity case all shouted her advance. 

Timi liked her tiny, symmetrical garden with its 
prim rows of lilies—human flowers, living their trage¬ 
dies and romances. The “young lady” lilies, the sweet- 
scented hime yuri, gave the enclosure an arrogant beauty 
because of their waxen charm. There was the wheel- 
lily, the golden-eyed Diospyros kaki, basking royally in 
the glaring white solitudes of the sun, like marble 
monuments for pigmies. Spikes of frost-white candle 
plants, the mitsumate, the paper plant, opened their 
petals drowsily in the noon heat, and the poet’s favorite, 
the kaido, called the “beautiful noble flowers,” fragile as 
his imagery, sought shelter in tufts of bright green 
grass. 

These were the flower visits to the earth. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


47 


Timi dug viciously around their roots, like a mother 
engrossed in the nurture of her children, her knees in 
the dirt; today, there had been many little insects on 
the stems, robbing her treasures of their vitality, and 
she was abstractedly engaged in their destruction. 

“Ohayo.” A voice, femininely soft, called out. Her 
slaughter could not be interrupted by any friendly inter¬ 
course. She pretended not to hear while she added to 
the massacre, and finished it in triumph. 

“Ohayo.” 

Timi arose in feigned surprise. Flower Garden, a 
type of old Japan in her getas or clogs, her looped hair 
and kimono, stood at the roadside, regarding her man¬ 
nish attire in maidenly modesty, with averted eyes, as 
if humiliated. 

“Come in,” said Timi politely. “We will have tea.” 

“Ho, Timi. I must hurry back. My danna san comes 
at any hour now. My lord would be very angry if his 
rice and fish are not ready. It is such pleasure to work 
hard for him. See, Timi, the beautiful pin he gave 
me even yesterday. Such a good master. Hot once 
has he struck me yet.” 

Timi regarded her, with small tolerance of her 
opinions, her hands boyishly in her pockets. 

“Rot!” she said, expressively. “Why should he strike 
you, Flower Garden ? It is you who should strike him. 
You give him all; he gives you nothing. What does he 
do for you, I’d like to know, that you should work hard 
to please him.” 

“He is very good to me,” the little kimono-clad figure 
nodded sagely its black, glistening hair with the many 
loops. “And always I have two helpings of rice, I must 


48 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


say lie is very honorable, my danna san. But I must 
hurry, Timi. Yesterday comes his friend, Honorable 
Mr. Foreigner, from America. He says, he wants no 
wife, hut what does a man know what is good for him ? 
I say nothing more, but I come to tell Cherry Blossom 
what a fine lord he would be for her, and all those won¬ 
derful bears on the cans he will get for her, I am sure. 
Poor Cherry Blossom, though, never has had a lord be¬ 
fore, so perhaps she will not know how to please him.” 
Flower Garden looked around, at the sound of a step be¬ 
hind her. The little cottage of Yuri-mother leant hos¬ 
pitably over the edge of Timi's garden as if to inhale 
some of the pervasive fragrance of the lilies. Cherry 
Blossom was stepping off the little box-shaped porch, 
her getas resounding against the wooden floor. 

“Ohayo,” said Flower Garden with a courtesy, and 
Cherry Blossom responded, in similar fashion, gravely 
saluting. 

“My honorable lord, he has a friend, Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner, who came just yesterday from way off,” 
Flower Garden launched eagerly into the errand that 
had brought her here. “I say, I get you a nice wife, like 
myself. My danna san, he very good to me. Perhaps 
Honorable Mr. Foreigner be very good to a nice wife, 
too. He make you a nice master, Cherry Blossom. True 
it is that you may not know how to please him, for you 
have not had the good fortune as I did to have two other 
lords before. But one can learn. I am sure he would 
give you much to eat and many presents. 

“Don't listen to her, Cherry Blossom,” Timi put in, 
vehemently, striding up and down the little gravel yard. 
“It isn't right. They don't do those things in America. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


49 


Nobody can be a hired wife. A wife means something 
better, some one a man seeks out to be the mother of 
his children, some one who is his equal. When a man 
has a wife there it means that his laws and churches 
allowed him to marry her, and it is put down in a 
book so he must cherish and love her always. The wife 
is never hired there. I guess she is more the master 
than he is, but he likes it. You women over here don’t 
know what you are doing. You are degrading your¬ 
selves. Our men regard you only as toys, that are to 
be thrown away when they are tired. They never marry 
their hired wives. Doesn’t that show that they don’t 
respect you ? Don’t listen to her, Cherry Blossom. 
Flower Garden belongs to the old slavery of Japan. If 
she prefers to work hard to please a man instead of mak¬ 
ing him work hard to please her, it’s her own bed she 
is making. Such talk is rot. They don’t talk that way 
in America. A wife means only one thing. And if the 
law and the church do not allow it, it’s all wrong, that’s 
all.” 

She was so agitated by her indignation that she drew 
out her vanity case, to the evident fascination of her 
audience, and renewed the red line of her lips. That 
completed with much studied movement, copied from 
her prototypes far off, she paraded her silver cigarette 
case, lit the wisp of paper, and puffed masculinely at 
it, aware of the consternation her actions created, for 
Japanese women smoked chiefly at their dainty tiny 
kiseru. 

“I do not need any Ingiris danna san ” announced 
Cherry Blossom with pride. “Today, my engaged 
father-in-law and my engaged mother-in-law come, to 


50 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


make their call. Any moment will they arrive in their 
kuruma. Soon will I be the bride of their rich son, and 
have a big brown coolie pull my kuruma. You shall 
see.” 

“But he would make such a good lord, such hand¬ 
some eyes,” Flower Garden continued, persuading her. 
“And I ? m sure he would never beat you—perhaps not 
very hard. For, of course, you have not had the ex¬ 
perience I have had, and you could not expect a man to 
treat you as mine does me.” There was much re¬ 
pressed complacency in her mien as she spoke. 

But her listener was not impressed by the graphic 
picture. Deep within her, the idea and its implied serf¬ 
dom, its menial obedience, repulsed her. She did not 
entirely understand her intolerance of it. 

“You women of Japan will never be treated like the 
women of civilized countries until you throw off this 
hideous slavery you yourselves are responsible for,” cried 
Timi, vigorously puffing at her cigarette. “These 
are customs, made by men, enforced by men, for their 
own benefit. Your gods didn’t make them, neither did 
your laws. Every law of decency and right is against 
it, and if it isn’t right in any other country, then it isn’t 
right here. It’s rot, I say.” 

“Why, Timi—how wicked you are,” commented 
Flower Garden, disapproval on her face. “How can 
you talk so against any of the beautiful customs our 
Imperial Ancestors made for our good? It will bring 
the punishment of the gods severely upon you.” 

“I’m not afraid of their anger,” Timi snapped her 
fingers in derision. “Mere bits of stone and painted 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


51 


wood. What can they do ? I’m more afraid of my own 
conscience. That’s the severest judge of all.” 

But Flower Garden had fled, putting her huge sleeves 
over her ears to shut out such inflammable speech. She 
only hoped that the wrath of the exalted ones would be 
delayed until she was safely out of the way. Timi was 
doomed; of that much she was certain. 

Cherry Blossom held back, strangely interested in 
her friend’s fiery words. 

“Is it all true, what you say, Timi? And if it is 
true, how can we help it? Who is to blame? I am 
sure I have read the Onna Daigaku very often, and I 
am sure I obey always, knowing how inferior I am, and 
how very unworthy.” 

“But you are not, that’s just it,” cried Timi, shaking 
her head. “You’ve always been taught that the Book 
of Greater Learning for Women is true, that you are 
inferior and unworthy, until you believe it. But what 
if I tell you it is false, every word of it, and that you 
are superior to every man you know, and worthy of the 
best in the world; what then, Cherry Blossom ? That’s 
the truth. Can’t you see it ? Why, it’s as plain as the 
nose on your face.” 

Cherry Blossom stared at her vaguely, not quite com¬ 
prehending. The Onna Daigaku was one of the props 
of her daily life; it required a herculean strength to re¬ 
move its support from her all at once. She turned 
toward her little home, seeing Yuri-mother frantically 
waving her hands from the shoj i. It would not be 
proper to be detected looking out when the honorable 


52 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


guests should arrive. Custom, inexorable in its exac¬ 
tions, demanded that the visit be paid by the prospect¬ 
ive bridegroom’s worthy parents, each bearing a costly 
gift. 

So did all engaged maidens profit by the honorable 
call, with perhaps a beautiful kimono, or its sash, the 
obi— or jeweled pins for the loops of hair. Cherry Blos¬ 
som not only would be very grateful to receive such 
presents, but in addition she needed them very badly, 
although Yuri, with an eye to economy, would much 
have preferred a pair of getas or clogs and some new 
stockings for her daily wear. 

The goddess, Kamnosube-no-kama, who watches over 
lovers, had endowed the little silkworm worker with the 
priceless charm of beauty and grace of body, to atone 
for her lack of worldly acquisitions. Her kimono was 
very old and faded, for there was no money to spend 
on expensive clothing. But she towered above its in¬ 
feriority, in her indescribable personality. 

She ran to the house, realizing that she must remain 
within, or be severely criticized for her lack of man¬ 
ners, and she had no sooner gained the room than Chu 
Chu’s growl of annoyance proclaimed that far up the 
strip of yellow road showed the outriders of the noble 
callers, commanding envy and attention from their less 
fortunate fellow-men whose poverty-stricken huts lined 
the road. 

The little bronze gong rang discordantly, and in the 
most proper alignment, as demanded by the Book of 
Proprieties, the Family Moroshito entered with depress¬ 
ing pomp and ceremony. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


53 


The heavy silk jacket of the domineering father stood 
out around him, as if to forbid any hospitable shaking 
of hands. The blase son, his face emaciated from dissi¬ 
pation, a monocle held rigidly in one eye, followed him, 
and last, indicating her position in the Japanese house¬ 
hold, the small, withered, prematurely old specimen of 
humanity, the mother, walked, in mincing, uncomfort¬ 
able pigeon steps, submerged under a heavy, golden 
brocade, the tip of her thin lips painted scarlet, evidenc¬ 
ing her knowledge of what was required in the social 
code when making visits, and that she had read the Sho- 
rei Hikke. 

Every one of the geisha, and, indeed, the tanaka yujo, 
the ladies of the Yoshiwara, knew Shiko. He was one 
of the most eligible young scions of the town, and a 
reputation for possessing numerous favorites, on whom 
he lavished many yen, had interested women universally 
in him. His little, glittering eyes rested greedily on 
the girl’s pink-and-white prettiness, as very politely Yuri 
advanced in dignity to greet her honorable guests, then 
came Cherry Blossom in abject humility, which was 
eminently proper in the presence of her august father- 
in-law. 

Cherry Blossom’s cheeks grew red with excitement 
as she gazed on the beautiful gifts they bestowed on her; 
she had never possessed anything beyond the most inex¬ 
pensive, cheap baubles that other working girls could 
acquire. The costly kimono of spring-like green, silken 
and finely embroidered in the blossoms of her own name, 
held her entranced. The pins for the hair that Papa 
Moroshito gave her, and Shiko’s little necklace of ivory 
—was anything ever so beautiful ? 


54 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


“I must show Timi,” she cried, oblivious to the ex¬ 
actions of propriety, and the condemning hauteur of her 
engaged parents-in-law over her rude behavior in their 
august presence. Timi would appreciate them, Timi 
would praise them. Good fortune had whirled to her 
head, recklessly upsetting her better judgment and san¬ 
ity. She darted out, calling in her fresh, young voice, 
over the tiny bamboo fence that separated the two huts. 

A frigid silence descended on the occupants of the 
little room. Shiko fingered his monocle in nervousness, 
recognizing the approach of a pitiless judgment. Love 
and fear battled within him. 

Papa Moroshito was beginning to be agitated over the 
delinquency of the gods in preventing the union of his 
aristocratic son with the silkworm worker in his employ. 
He had been offered a very expensive sable coat and 
several thousand yen if he would allow Shiko to marry 
Morning Dew, the daughter of a thread merchant who 
aspired to lordly connections with a descendant of a 
real samurai. True it was that she had no claim to 
beauty, but what is prettiness but an ephemeral trick 
of coloring; and 2,000 yen can buy any amount of hap¬ 
piness from the gods, so they would never be without 
the honorable rice in their old age. The imperious Moro¬ 
shito regarded Cherry Blossom’s beautiful face as so 
much evil, employed to ensnare masculine humanity. 
Surely the Great Buddha would direct the way of re¬ 
lease at the proper time. 

In great mortification, he arose very stiffly, command¬ 
ing thereby the same from the other members of his 
deferential family, thus passing judgment on the girl’s 
thoughtless actions in rushing from their noble presence. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


55 


Poor Yuri, practised by years of experience and suffer- 
perceived at once that things were going wrong, and 
to remedy matters as best she could, she hit the floor 
many times very hard in obeisance, with her head, pro¬ 
ducing a nasty headache without accomplishing any of 
the mitigating effect she had intended on the offended 
callers. 

The haughty Moroshito, as he took leave, turned his 
head condescendingly toward his hostess. There was a 
malicious light in his narrow eyes. Yuri looked meekly 
down, impressed by his magnificence as much as by his 
autocratic bearing. 

“There is the study of the furtyu, the Elegant Man¬ 
ners, which she must learn,” he said, coldly, as he 
stepped outside. It was as if he had said: “We are the 
proud Moroshitos. To come up to our level, you must 
know how to defer to our demands.” 

Yuri bowed her coal-black, lacquered head again to 
the floor. 

Near the bamboo fence, Timi stood, sharing the pleas¬ 
ure of Cherry Blossom in her newly-acquired treasures. 
The irate glance of the insulted Moroshitos fell on her 
neatly-trousered limbs, in their smart knickerbockers, 
and with their aristocratic noses tilted above such vulgar 
happenings, they motioned their servants to open the 
bamboo gate, and hastened to their three richly gilded 
kurumas. Each carried a sunshade, except that Papa 
Moroshito’s was the most expensive, a huge purple circle, 
lined with fringes of green and gold, and bore an in- 
signe of ancient lineage on its ivory handle. 

Shiko had lingered behind, awaiting.his parents pre¬ 
ceding him in their vehicles. He whispered to the girl 


56 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

what he had not dared say in their presence, in furtive 
haste. 

On the morrow was the Cherry Blossom festival, the 
Matsnri, when people flock to the parks, to send tremb¬ 
ling prayers for happiness from the temples. 

“Does Shiko go to the park?” Cherry Blossom asked 
him, falteringly, hoping that they might be seen in pub¬ 
lic together, and she would have an opportunity to 
wear the beautiful new kimono. 

Shiko yawned, one eye on the over-dressed, shapeless 
form of his august mother who was being helped into her 
kuruma, opening her sunshade, of a dull, ugly blue, 
so that it would not impair the gorgeous effect of her 
lord and master’s. 

He yawned, plainly bored. Such direct questions were 
unbecoming an engaged girl. Hot even a wife was al¬ 
lowed these intimate confidences. 

“Sayonara,” he whispered lightly, ignoring her in¬ 
quiry, indifferent to the growing disappointment in her 
eyes. “Hext time, then once again—and it will be our 
wedding day, in the month of the Bird.” 


CHAPTER IV 


In Uyeno Pabk, where huge double-pink cherry bios* 
soms made flaunting banners of color against the rich 
dark green pine trees, Hawaka, with Yuri and Cherry 
Blossom, walked along the winding paths, watching 
throngs of people sipping cups of honorable tea and 
sake. Long, fluttering pieces of paper, on which poems 
and prayers for happiness were written, depended like 
strange insects from the boughs, tossed by the wind into 
odd, grotesque shapes. 

The Japanese have a saying: “Among men the samu¬ 
rai ; among flowers the sakura.” Religious superstition 
places supreme faith in the ceremonial of written pray¬ 
ers, hung so that the gods of the Matsuri might read— 
and reward. Cherry Blossom timidly tied one on a low 
branch, asking for happiness, too; it was a mere form. 

Yuri, clad like other widows whose romance is long 
past, was unobtrusive in a dark kimono, her hair freshly 
lacquered. More than once Hawaka turned and re¬ 
garded Cherry Blossom’s natural loveliness with deep 
scrutiny, and small wonder it was; for many heads 
looked back at the picturesque figure in its delicate, 
spring-like green attire, scattered with a tracery of 
cherry blossoms, and Chu Chu had twisted sprays of her 
namesake flower above the rich bronze puffs of hair over 
each ear. 


57 


58 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Tlie paths were crowded in the early dusk; priests, 
taking respite from arduous duties, moved with the 
crowds, passing undetected. Favorites of the Yoshiwara 
were walking, as much to attract patronage as for exer¬ 
cise, bevies of tiny girls attending them, carrying their 
wraps; the gay young bloods of the city dodged behind, 
in the diffusion of light from the pink lanterns on the 
flower-laden trees. But even in that subdued radiance 
men, impertinent, bold, jostled familiarly against them, 
pushing Cherry rudely by the arm, sweeping Yuri off 
her feet; and their discomfort became so great that 
Hawaka took less congested paths back to the Ginza, 
and as the hour of the Dragon clanged at the temple 
gate, eight o’clock, they paused at one of the gaily-lighted 
stalls to partake of some inexpensive refreshment, as 
the long walk had made them tired. Cries, hoarse, 
supplicating, from the different hawkers, noised around 
them; the mournful, staccato notes of a Chinese flute 
player sounded dirge-like, forcing their attention to his 
basket of buckwheat cakes, suspended on a long pole over 
his shoulders. It was no worse than the wailing cry of 
the Amma-Hari, the blind shampooer—who beats and 
pummels his patrons in performing his task. 

Rickshaw men, huge, bronze, half-naked men from 
the hills, darted like weird beings through the streets, 
w T ith miraculous speed, the muscles of their limbs 
standing out in purple ridges; often, in gay carousal, 
several students had piled into one rickshaw, but the 
hill-men paid little attention to their burdens. 

Before them, the hanaya, the picturesque flower-seller, 
with his boxes of living, growing plants suspended from 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


59 


bamboo poles across bis broad blue back, strolled, a cigar¬ 
ette between bis lips, intoning in spite of it bis monot¬ 
onous, mechanical words: “Hasu-no-hana—Flowers to 
sell. Flowers to sell.” 

Cherry grasped Hawaka’s arm with enthusiasm; she 
wanted a spray of the Matsuri flower. The sakura would 
bring her happiness, for it was her namesake. Hawaka 
motioned the vendor to him, arrogantly tossing out a 
sen. The hanaya gravely selected a branch, presenting 
it to Cherry Blossom. He demanded another sen, but 
Hawaka shook his head stubbornly. 

“Takai! Takai!” he said sharply. “Takusan,” which 
meant that it was quite too much; in fact, two sen would 
provide him with many pleasures, and to waste it on a 
spray of flowers was annoying to him. 

The flower vendor suddenly caught sight of Cherry 
Blossom’s radiant face; in his dense intelligence she 
could be no other than the Sakura Goddess herself, who, 
tradition had it, often took the form of a beautiful 
maiden at the Matsuri, to discover the shortcomings of 
her worshippers. And with a startled exclamation, he 
fled from the scene, muttering his neglected prayers for 
protection. 

Cherry Blossom buried her face in delight in the 
fragrant mass; it was well she did so. Hot far in ad¬ 
vance of them stood Shiko, a geisha behind him, as is 
not unusual at night, and if he saw Cherry Blossom she 
would be disgraced; for an engaged girl should never 
attend the ennichi or Matsuri at night without her 
honorable parents-in-law and lover. And this inexcus¬ 
able breach of an observance would be sufficient to 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


completely break off all relations with tbe lordly fam¬ 
ily. Yuri had seen him, too, and quick as a flash shoved 
Cherry Blossom into an open shop, and she and Hawaka 
kept on in the crowd in the shadows, to escape detec¬ 
tion. Shiko had passed. Emboldened by his disappear¬ 
ance, Cherry thrust her head timidly out, and looked 
up and down the street; but her relief was brief. At¬ 
tracted by a clamor behind him, her honorable lover was 
retracing his way, and she jumped swiftly back into 
the shop; in the dim light she stumbled over jars and 
curious objects arranged over the floor. Images, big, 
menacing in the dark, confronted her on all sides. Huge 
paintings, in massive frames, were supported against 
the walls, and ravishing odors of sandalwood and strange 
incenses made a thick smoke in the rear. Her clogs hit 
smartly against one of the jars, and it overturned; at 
the noise a little old man, withered and brown, his long 
teeth gleaming even in that semi-light, glided noiselessly 
from out an alcove, where he had evidently been enjoy¬ 
ing his pipe while resting from the cares of the day. 
It was quite possible that he had also been at his devo¬ 
tions, at his shrine of Imperial Ancestors, and was em¬ 
phasizing his piety with an abundance of incense. He 
seized a lantern and held it up high, seeking the ex¬ 
planation of the noise. At sight of Cherry Blossom’s 
face, his lantern fell to the floor as he cast a look 0 $ 
amazement at her, and, paper that it was, dissolved 
into a flame—and nothingness—at his feet. He rubbed 
his hand drowsily across his eyes, as if unbelieving. 

“It is the Hishigawa,” he muttered, frightened, to 
himself. “Buddha is great.” Tomorrow there would be 
seven lantern prayers to save his soul. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


61 

Little Cherry Blossom was too scared to notice what 
he did, afraid of his displeasure at her intrusion; her 
greatest fear was that Shiko might see her, and the 
thought of her shame overwhelmed her. She caught 
frantically at the hand of the old shopkeeper, begging 
him to conceal her, making him understand that sh§ 
was being pursued by evil ones intent on harming her. 

In the noisy, boisterous crowds he could well believe 
it. At the substantial sound of her voice, faltering, 
pleading, he was visibly relieved, and became again the 
commercially shrewd individual that nature—and the 
Occident—had made him. His sharp, restive gaze 
swept over the walls. All of his pictures represented 
the Great Master’s art, he who had passed into Hirvana 
over two hundred years ago, but no one had ever pos¬ 
sessed his secret, to paint such beautiful women, so real 
that they stepped out of the frame. 

He stared reflectively at the girl’s exquisite beauty; 
she was prettier than any Hishigawa he possessed, and 
as if by divine intent, she resembled closely his most fa¬ 
mous copy, the Cherry Blossom, which depicted a beauti¬ 
ful maiden with her hair wreathed with the mystic 
flowers. 

A chattering, gay party of Americans was entering 
the shop, attracted by its dim light and the gleam of 
ivories; at the same time, Shiko, faithfully shadowed 
by his servile geisha, who lurked in the shadows outside, 
but whose bright little eyes never once lost sight of him, 
secure in her prey—entered with his arrogant manner, 
rudely pushing aside any who stood in his way. 

The brain of the Oriental travels rapidly. Osaka, the 
shopkeeper, realized there was an opportunity for profit 


62 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


and gain, and always seeking the cause, lie attributed 
bis good fortune to bis gods. In instant recognition be 
noticed tbe party from tbe Embassy, and Deering, wbo 
bad been proof to bis persuasions before. He hesitated 
no longer. He hastily drew Cherry Blossom up a flight 
of narrow crooked steps to a platform, where some 
bronze frames were artistically grouped. It was all 
done in a second, tbe girl arranged on a cushion, a deli¬ 
cate grey gossamer veil thrown over her—such as he 
kept for shrouding his newly painted pictures to temper 
the high lights—and one of the ornate heavy frames 
was placed, so that the painting was complete. The 
effect was marvelous; it stood out against the inanimate 
canvases surrounding it with luminous power and depth., 
Then Osaka, versed in his trade, hung a dull, weird jade 
green lantern so that it cast a peculiar shade over the 
face in the frame, and smiling, and imperturbable, crept 
noiselessly down the stairs, advancing graciously to greet 
his patrons, rubbing his withered brown hands. Cherry 
Blossom sat as if she were in reality a bit of canvas and 
pigment, for she had an uncomfortable sense of danger, 
and perhaps Shiko’s sharp eyes would discover the de¬ 
ception; her heart beat nervously, her hands felt 
strangely numb and cold, as she suffered under her 
apprehension. 

“Honorable Mr. Foreigner buy?” Osaka asked 
adroitly, with his most suave smile. “Tonight, it is 
the Matsuri. I have the wonderful Hishigawa, the 
Sakura Maiden, Cherry Blossom. Ho picture ever so 
good. Great Hishigawa been gone many many long 
years—200 by the count of the flowers. This picture 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


63 


look as young as Honorable Mr. Foreigner and bis 
pretty American ladies. Come, you see it V 9 

There was much light banter among them; it was a 
gay crowd in itself, for they had been to the Imperial 
garden party, earlier in the day, and the precision and 
formality had to a certain degree limited their enjoy¬ 
ment. But the beautiful gardens, the gracious saluta¬ 
tions of the Empress, the innumerable courtesies ex¬ 
tended to them more than sufficed to atone for the strict 
court etiquette they had to observe. Dinner at the 
Embassy offered opportunity for relaxation, and still in 
their evening clothes, the women with light scarfs 
thrown over their shimmering gowns, they joined in 
the pleasure seekers, enjoying the strange ceremonials 
at the temples in honor of the Sakura goddess, and find¬ 
ing their way through the streets, in delight at the 
colorful kaleidoscopic aspect. 

Deering was the object of their banter, but he stood 
it good-naturedly, as he had done all afternoon, although 
he confessed he had committed some atrocious blunders. 
Twice had he stepped on the Imperial foot of Her 
Majesty, as he tried to bow backward on leaving the 
levee; and more than twice had he taken his sake from 
the wrong side of the cup when it was presented to him 
by a very gorgeous being with a sword. And he had 
not the advantage of excusing his stupidity by invoking 
Buddha. 

The Major, more red-faced than usual because of his 
discomfort in his Tuxedo—and the prescribed stiff col¬ 
lar—leaned heavily against the bamboo wall, fanning 
himself, despite the coolness of the night air, with his 
hat. Grace and Cousin Em preceded the other women 


64 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


in the party, pausing to admire first one object of art, 
then another, as the shop keeper hung up more lanterns 
to display his wares. Just as with the Ikebana, the 
science of the arrangement of flowers, there is as much 
wisdom in the hanging of lanterns, for ivories should 
never be displayed unless in the warm flush of orange 
or pink; nor should copper be exhibited unless the light 
sheds an effulgence of red; marble demands its blue, to 
whiten it, and the intricately carved objects of teakwood 
and sandalwood seem to belong to jade—that weird, 
religious, baneful light, half real, perhaps wicked—-as 
the flash of a seductive green eye is evil—conveying 
both good and bad, just as evil spirits may lurk in the 
temple. 

Deering idly followed where the shopkeeper directed. 
There was a rustle of silk, an odor of expensive Arabian 
oils and perfumes, and Shiko stepped insolently in front 
of them, waving his hands, on which his long elaborately 
polished finger nails shone like the talons of a vulture. 

“I buy the Hishigawa,” he declared importantly, 
raising his head to show his hauteur. “Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner not have any right to take our best paintings 
away. Show me the picture, Osaka, an’ petty dam’ 
quick—that what American gentlemans say.” 

The old dealer shook his head, dubiously. Shiko al¬ 
ready owed him many yen, for presents he had sent to 
his geishas and his favorites in the Yoshiwara. It was 
all right to speak grandly of the big marriage ceremony 
in the month of the Bird, in the fall, and of the chests 
of money the Samurai father would give as a present; 
but that did not help him at all, for he had many 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


65 


painters to pay for weekly tasks, and there were the 
frame makers, too. So he hesitated. 

a Let me see the picture again,” said Deering, with 
indecision as to purchasing it. He was not yet awakened 
to challenge by Shiko’s offensiveness. 

“I only see the picture first,” Shiko interposed, im¬ 
periously, clapping one hand angrily against the other; 
it was partly for the benefit of the geisha, so that she 
would be impressed by his importance and dignity. 
Shiko was a true Joi-or, or hater of the foreigner. Al¬ 
ready their thrift and keen knowledge of conditions took 
out of his native land every month many thousand yen, 
and he had the suspicion of the ignorant that it meant 
a depletion of his country’s wealth, not realizing in his 
stupidity that it increased native prosperity by keeping 
the proverbial doors of trade and commerce open. His 
attitude now partook of this conviction, and his narrow 
eyes emitted sparks of real antagonism, though his 
physical senses took infinite delight in the appearance 
of the women in their low-cut gowns and bare arms 
and shoulders. In Japan no decent girl exhibited her¬ 
self thus in public, and it was one of the many repre¬ 
hensible acts added to the long list of innocent deeds 
not permitted her. Morality is a philosophy and not 
a practice here; and as the body is the City of the Nine 
Gates, it matters little how one treats it, but the mind 
must be kept pure. 

The jade green lantern gave to Cherry Blossom’s 
face the appearance that the cunning Oriental knew it 
would, and nature appeared to be the mystery of the 
brush, so correct, so accurate, that it looked artificial. 


66 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

“Why, it looks real!” Cousin Em cried excitedly. 
“Is it a painting?” 

Osaka rubbed bis hands again in enjoyment of his 
ruse. “It is the great Hishigawa,” he said solemnly. 
“That is the way he paints. How much Honorable Mr. 
Foreigner give!” 

“The picture is mine,” Shiko interrupted, in anger, 
waving his hands menacingly. “Here are one hundred 
sen.” He threw the coin insolently on the floor, where 
it clattered and rolled among the stone and bronze jars. 
“Tomorrow you send it to my house—you hear, Osaka ? 
And dam’ quick, I say.” 

“I’ll give thirty yen,” Deering jumped into the fray 
with relish, his eyes determined. There was an inde¬ 
scribable charm about the old canvas that appealed to 
him, but he disposed of it as being the skill of a hand 
that knew its art. 

“Forty yen.” Shiko shot a vindictive glance at him 
for pushing the price so high. “Send it tomorrow 
you hear ?” He stamped his clogs in rage, not accus¬ 
tomed to having his wish opposed. 

“Fifty yen.” Deering’s usually calm voice rang out 
like a clarion. He had made up his mind suddenly. 
There was a charm about the picture that made him want 
it. After all, a place could be added for it in his toy 
house, and he was impelled by a curious, inexplicable 
desire to own it. It was not so much the childlike, inno¬ 
cent face of the girl it represented, but it suggested 
growing womanhood, the wistfulness of youth, and 
an elusive hint of sadness. Perhaps he had invested 
it with these allurements, he told himself, being eager 
to discover them in it. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


67 


And, again, it was a fitting expression of the great 
artist’s skill. Its intrinsic value was unmistakable. The 
glowing, pink brilliancy of the cheeks, softly rounded; 
the droop of the eyes, shadowed by their thick lashes, 
the unusual mass of brown hair—one could only wonder 
where Hishigawa Kichibei found his subject, so differ¬ 
ent from the oblong almond-eyed faces of the beauties 
of the land, and their lacquered coiffures. 

“The picture is mine.” Shiko folded his arms across 
his breast and faced them with sullen determination. 
“Nobody else can have it . I demand my right.” 

“Where money ?” Osaka asked quickly, his face full 
of cunning. It was trickery against itself. He did not 
intend to accept a bad bargain; and he refused to wait 
till the marriage occurred, in the month of the Bird. 
“I tired of you always say Mr. Honorable Father pay. 
Your Honorable Father never pay—Osaka has long, 
long bill, and he needs money. Honorable Mr. Foreigner 
gives me money now. This is Matsuri. There are my 
Imperial Ancestors to be fed and prayers for Buddha. 
I want my money right now, and as Shiko says, dam’ 
quick; you hear, Shiko? You hear?” 

Osaka was plainly angry. Months of patient waiting 
for sums long past due had resulted in arousing a deep, 
powerful, savage anger; he was old; no geisha looked 
at him any more, because he could not afford perfumes 
and oils and presents. Shiko represented more than a 
debtor to him, something that robbed him of the privi¬ 
leges of life and romance. It is hard for wisdom to 
confess the preference for youth. 


68 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

Shiko, raging with fury, shot his hand toward him, 
but Osaka parried the blow, and his long front teeth 
resembled those of a vicious animal. 

“You be sorry, Osaka/' Shiko threatened^ moving 
majestically toward the opening, not looking back. ‘ You 
be sorry." He disappeared among the people on the 
street, and the soft step of the geisha followed him in 
silence. 

Deering, having acquired the masterpiece, stood be¬ 
low it, gazing raptly at the canvas. It was indeed more 
beautiful than he had thought. The Major slapped him 
familiarly on the back, approving of his purchase. I 
never saw anything like it," he was enthusiastically re¬ 
peating to first one then the other as the rest of the 
throng stepped forward to see it. “I’d almost swear 
she was living." 

“Did not the bird, the chaffinch, step out of the can¬ 
vas, leaving a hole where he painted it ?" Osaka breathed 
mysteriously as he pocketed the money. “It is the 
great Hishigawa. Once, there was a lady he painted, 
so beautiful that a great samurai fell in love with her, 
and his love burned so that it made her come to life, 
burning in her heart, too; and she stepped out of the 
frame, and they enjoyed seven hundred years of happi¬ 
ness in Paradise." 

They laughed, tolerantly, at his faith, as Deering 
gave the address where he wished it sent the next day. 
Osaka followed them to the door, with many injunctions: 
the picture was very old; if the honorable foreigners 
noticed, he never let the penetrating, destroying light of 
the sun, or even daylight, fall on his priceless treasures, 
for the paint was 200 years old, and who could say if 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


69 


tomorrow it would not disappear ? There was no fear, 
if one kept it away from the bright light; there could 
he a balcony made for it, high up, with a lantern in 
front of it. Such was the way he was taught. 

“Well,” said the Major as they stepped out, “he is 
either a very remarkable old man, steeped in knowledge, 
or a wonderful liar.” 

“How can you say such a thing ?” Cousin Em inter¬ 
posed, reprovingly. “What do we know about their 
marvelous art, their lore, their deep superstitions ? And 
it is true what he says about lanterns. I know at home 
we always used pink candles on our dining table so 
our complexions would look more youthful. See, Major, 
there’s the flower man, with his plants actually in dirt 
and growing on his shoulder boxes.” 

“Hasu-no-hana! Hasu-no-hana!” The vendor per¬ 
ceived their interest, and shouted louder. 

“Do let’s be foolish,” Cousin Em cried. “This is 
the Matsuri. We’ll all have some cherry blossom. Jack 
need not be so lofty because of his being the only one 
to own them.” The Major allowed her to make him 
purchase an extravagant amount of them, which she 
painstakingly divided. 

“You see where Hishigawa got his inspiration,” he 
said, learnedly, making the mistake of sniffing at the 
odorous flowers. Age can seldom afford to be romantic; 
the Major had always been an annual target for that 
bane of middle age, hay fever, and it required only a 
fleck of pollen to send him into a vigorous sneeze. 

Deering replied absently; the opulence of the stalls, 
the ever swaying red and green lanterns, the incenses 
from the temples, affected him languorously, like the 


70 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


spell of witchcraft. He felt as if he were merely a 
shadow in the dim, always moving, restless procession, 
as it surged and throbbed in the sweet, fragrant, flower- 
laden air. 

Cherry Blossom arose slowly from her cramped 
posture, shook out her crumpled green kimono, and made 
her way carefully down the crooked stairs. It must be 
very late; the temple bells could not be heard so far 
within, because of the unusual noises of the streets. 
Soon it would be unsafe for an unprotected girl to be 
out alone, and she would deserve whatever calamity 
should befall her. 

The old shop keeper patted her on the arm, in kind¬ 
ness ; she had been the means of his making a good sale 
and deserved recompense and he thrust a handful of sen 
into her palm. 

“Someday we sell another Hishigawa,” he said, 
friendly over the luck she had brought him. But 
Cherry Blossom had already darted away, catching 
sight of Hawaka’s tall figure across the Ginza, and 
Yuri’s little form beside him. They were apparently 
searching for her, alarmed at her continued disappear¬ 
ance, and she ran over to them, regardless of the swiftly 
running coolies and the hawkers, and threw herself into 
Yuri’s arms. It was very childish, but tears of joy 
coursed down their cheeks, and while they petted each 
other as if suddenly reunited after a lapse of years, 
Hawaka took advantage of the opportunity to enjoy 
some boiled fish; for he only had two sen left and that 
would only pay for one. 


CHAPTER V 


Thebe was a tiny pool in the miniature garden, its 
limited expanse edged by trim rows of cockle shells and 
tiny, creeping vines. Cherry Blossom was afforded in¬ 
finite delight at the reflection it gave of her, like the 
vain bird that parades in its pompous beauty. Surely 
never had any one before possessed such an embroidered 
kimono, woven with its flowery blossoms, in the soft, 
vernal tints of nature, the pink for happiness, and the 
green for contentment. Even the sparkle of the gifts 
her engaged father-in-law, the great Moroshito, had 
bestowed on her, with chary courtesy, assumed minor 
interest in comparison. 

Being essentially feminine, Cherry Blossom chose 
the garden for this exhibition of her newly-acquired 
treasures, the like of which she had never possessed be¬ 
fore, for she wanted Timi to see them, Timi who lived 
in the small bandbox of bamboo adjoining. For she 
had been raised in that far-off country where her father 
had engaged in business, and the results, which had ac¬ 
companied her back to the land of her nativity, such 
as fitted dresses, even worse, masculine appearing knick¬ 
erbockers, shoes with heels, and hats, were very gro¬ 
tesque, indeed. And were it not for the stern precepts 
one learned in the Shorei Hikke, that punctilious Book 


71 


72 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

of Proprieties, one would have had to laugh very loud 
at sight of them. 

But vanity was abruptly dissipated at the sound of a 
voice over the fence of bamboo sticks—the frail boun¬ 
dary which kept the great world out. Startled, Cherry 
Blossom’s quick gaze fell on the rickshaw at the gate, 
the two men stepping out, and her heart fluttered in 
timidity. They were not of her race. 

They stared at her glittering ensemble, compelled to 
vague admiration, as she put her hand in embarrass¬ 
ment to her head as if to cover the jeweled pins thrust 
through her brown hair. Modest Japanese maidens do 
not thus attract attention in public, and she colored red, 
knowing that she had committed a flagrant sin, and 
must atone for it by two extra lantern prayers that very 
night. 

Yuri, running out in trepidation, saved her from 
speech, her black, lacquered head bristling aggressively, 
as she resented the intrusion. Bamboo fences, unstable 
though they were, meant protection, for did they not 
bring immunity from the sickness, and pests of fleas? 
Somewhere between those two calamities, in her mind, 
were included the Honorable Foreigners, and she lis¬ 
tened with small grace as one of the intruders stated 
his errand. 

The priest, at the temple nearby where they sent 
their prayers to their gods, had directed him to Yuri’s 
cottage, for did she not know more than the great news¬ 
paper printed every day on the Ginza, and if one wanted 
to ask how many children the proud samurai Nikoto had, 
he who killed one thousand dragons many hundred years 
ago—or how many butterflies were in the Hyakka-yen, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


73 


the Garden of 100 Flowers, there was none else could 
tell. And he remembered, also, that she had cared for 
the passing wayfarers in a House of Sorrow, an abode 
for the sick and dying, before she appeared in the tiny 
hut at the edge of the mulberry fields. Only Yuri 
would know. 

Perhaps madame could assist them in finding some 
trace of the wife of their client, a beautiful woman from 
a far-off country, who, with her husband, an army 
officer, many years ago had been touring the country. 
She was his bride, they had loved each other dearly; but 
there had been a foolish light quarrel between them— 
words that meant nothing in themselves—but the heart 
of the little bride had been hurt, and sensitive in her 
childish pride, she had incredibly disappeared. Many 
years had a search been made for some trace of her, 
years in which her grief-stricken husband had become 
a middle-aged man, but time had not healed his suffering 
any more than it had restored her, his little lost bride, 
to him. 

There was every reason to believe there had been a 
child, and the father would not relinquish his quest 
until actual proof had been discovered to confirm his 
forebodings, that his bride had died. If the child did 
not exist, all of the vast wealth, the property which the 
wife possessed, would revert to a distant branch of the 
family. For many years, in different parts of the land* 
following even the most tenuous clue, they had been in- 
defatigably pursuing every suggestion as to her possible 
whereabouts. But all had been futile. Ho one else 
would know, but madame, the priest had declared. Per¬ 
haps she could recall some incident which might 


u MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 

enlighten them, a tangible basis that might afford a solu¬ 
tion of the mystery. 

Yuri looked measuringly at her visitors, her hands 
folded wing-like across her bosom. 

“Will worthy guests condescend to take cushions?” 
A gentle clapping of her hands evoked Chu Chu from 
the house, her arms full of brightly colored zabutons. 
Chu Chu, always scenting disaster, and seldom being 
disappointed, cast suspicious, angry looks at them. She 
dimly associated all trouble with honorable foreigners, 
no matter from what part of the globe they came. 

Yuri suddenly closed her eyes, a rapt, trance-like 
expression overspreading her little brown face. She 
struck her forehead thrice with one small clenched fist, 
as if to dislodge slumbering, lingering memories. 

“The honorable priest spoke truth,” she commented, 
solemnly, in her monotonous voice. It was strangely 
impressive, as she seemed to intone the words. “He is 
right. Ho one but Yuri could know, for no one but 
Yuri has the senses and the understanding of her youth 
left. Many years ago, it was when I had the Sick 
House, the House of Sorrow. Many came, many went. 
There is nothing different from the other to remember. 
Men, women, little children cast off by their cruel par¬ 
ents—what mattered who it was, for then could I give 
them bed free, and care, for my own lord was with me 
then, and I had money, many yen, to provide for them. 
But when my honorable master was taken away by the 
Great Buddha, when the big Sorrow crushed me also, 
what had I left? I kept them while I could—many 
years longer; but there was nothing any more to buy 
the food. Many women, good, bad, came to me. The 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


75 


House of Sorrow turned no one away. It did not ask 
the names; all were sufferers, punished by the gods. 
Some tarried longer; some took the long journey to Nir¬ 
vana, begging to stay here. Men, women, young girls. 
Sometimes they left behind something for memory, a 
trinket, a letter, seldom a name—packages of clothes, 
perhaps. The House of Sorrow; the honorable priest 
was right. Into the world they came, in pain; out of 
it so they went. The men left what the world gave them, 
the women what the gods gave them. Babies—many 
babies; but some sickened without their mothers, and 
the Great Buddha carried them over to their lonely 
mothers. Some were taken up to the hills, where the 
priests cared for them, until they were old enough to 
work in the rice ridges. I asked for no money. Then 
sorrow seized me, too. There was nobody to care for 
poor Yuri; and the House of Sorrow disappeared. The 
honorable priest spoke truth.” Her cadences fell pe¬ 
culiarly on her listeners 7 ears. Her simple speech had 
portrayed graphically the brief, ephemeral tragedies 
and dramas enacted during her years of sacrifices. 

“Is there no one in particular, a beautiful white 
woman, sick, sad, who came to you? Surely some 
white women passed this way. There must be some 
recollection that stands out from all others ?” One of 
the callers asked eagerly. “No one but you can help us, 
madame; of that I feel assured. Do you remember 
any one else, fair, perhaps ill ?” 

Yuri pondered deeply. 

“There were so many, white ladies, girls of my own 
land, 77 she said, in meditation still, as if arraying those 
ghostly personages of the past before her vision. “So 


76 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


many, each in sorrow, coming and going, trying to 
forget, afraid to remember; women, running off with 
love, and finding out in horror that love had run off 
from them. Is it not so, Honorable Mr. Foreigners? 
Your men, when they love unwisely in your great 
country, where your law is higher than the law of nature* 
sometimes they run off here, with their love—and what 
then? Love is dangerous. It cannot feed on itself 
alone, like the plants. They cannot live alone. The 
bees, insects, must make them thrive. So it is with 
love. It cannot live alone. Otherwise, it dies—or it 
runs off. Many white, strange women have come and 
gone. Yuri did not know them. One was laughing, 
one was crying- 

“I knew when women suffered—when the heart was 
breaking. So have I won contentment from the gods. 
Ask Chu Chu. She can say. So did they all bless me, 
some with dying prayers that the gods heard. I re¬ 
member one white woman, very sick and very sad— 
there was a baby, too.” 

“Was it a girl ?” The man cast a sharp, secret scru¬ 
tiny over the flawless fair face of the girl beside her, 
whose radiant eyes were distended in awe over Yuri’s 
plaintive narrative. 

“No,” said Yuri, emphatically, “it was a gentleman 
baby, Honorable Mr. Foreigner. But what matter now ? 
Both are gone. It was the will of the Great Buddha.” 

“Have you anything—perhaps letters, or a dress, or 
a picture ?” The taller man of the visitors had arisen, 
and was excitedly speaking. Yuri listened in patience, 
hardly able to follow him in his vehemence. A second 



MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


77 


clapping of her hands succeeded in bringing Chu Chu’s 
shapeless form into view, and she gave her a lengthy 
direction that her callers did not understand. 

The servant returned after a few minutes, carrying 
a large lacquered black box, depositing it with gravity 
before her mistress. 

Yuri took a huge key from out an inner fold of her 
sleeve, and unlocked it, beckoning her guests nearer. 
Many packages, yellowed by passing years, reposed on 
top—bits of old ribbons, withered lotus flowers, little 
remnants of romance and life, empty reminders of love 
and sorrow. A musty odor of long forgotten years lay 
heavy upon them. Yuri’s brown hand dug to the depths 
of the box, as if trained by familiarity, and drew forth 
a small bundle, tied with black ribbon and a white paper 
prayer for happiness. She broke the bands loose, and 
threw the contents on the ground before them. 

“White lady’s clothes are still here,” she resumed, in 
her uninflected tone. “They were too big for Yuri; and 
who knows ? Perhaps I would have been putting on my 
back the garment of sorrow. It is as well they did not 
fit. The little hat, it is so funny. And see, there are 
some very nice letters. She, this one, if I remember, 
was very, very sick. Body sickness and soul sickness 
and heart sickness. The gods cannot cure all three at 
once.” But her audience was not listening. The men 
had seized the faintly written letters, and were deeply 
immersed in the contents. They said a few words to 
each other, idly scanning the faded, queer dresses on 
the ground. It was an unexpected but not improbable 
ending to their long, continued quest. Death had won, 


78 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


not their client. Only the ashes of an old romance re¬ 
mained—an echo of a great love, startling, sad, disap¬ 
pearing, out of the past. 

“If I may present these letters to my client,” the 
older man was saying, with a dignified bow, “I will 
amply reward you. My name is White. Perhaps he 
may wish to talk with you. It will be a great blow to 
him.” He held out some bills toward her. 

A line of severity set around Yuri’s mouth. She 
thrust the money rudely away, her eyes flashing in 
hostility. 

“I sell them?” She laughed shrilly. “I, Yuri, who 
would have plucked out my heart to have saved her ?” 
She threw one arm around Cherry Blossom, who was 
ridiculing the short-waisted dresses, and their odd, pe¬ 
culiar tiny ruffles. How it would make Timi, Timi, 
the wise one, laugh to see her in those musty old things. 
She grabbed the little round hat, wreathed so pathetic¬ 
ally with its blue line of forget-me-nots, and tied it on 
her head. Yuri jumped swiftly toward her, tearing it 
off her, an ominous frown on her usually meek little face. 

“It is the garments of sorrow the white lady wore,” 
she cried, inarticulate with horror. “Nobody must wear 
them ever. Poor white lady who died—and the poor 
little white baby who died, too.” 

Her agility and vehemence arrested the attention of 
her callers. 

The hand of one fell heavily on Cherry Blossom’s 
arm. 

“This girl is not the little white baby, is she ? Come, 
now, tell the truth.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


79 


Xuri shook her glistening, lacquered head in firmness. 

“She my white baby,” she dropped her burning eyes 
in meekness, her arms again in the folded, wing-like 
attitude of submissiveness to the gods. “Yuri, too, had 
a white lord, Honorable Mr. Foreigner. “Yuri had 
suffered, too. But love did not run away from me.. 
My American lord went away to the Great Buddha, 
and this one he left me.” 

“Well, it’s a great disappointment.” The visitors 
threw off the gloomy atmosphere that had held them all 
as they pried into the box with its secrets of the past. 
“We were led to believe that our search might be suc¬ 
cessful, and that the child, at least, might be found.” 

“If Honorable Foreigners did find white lady’s baby, 
what would they do with it ?” Yuri asked, politely. 

“I suppose the father, who is a very aristocratic 
gentleman, would want to take it away with him, and 
make up for the years that have been lost. Well, I 
thank you, madame, for this most convincing informa¬ 
tion. And I am sure he will wish to thank you very 
materially for your kindness to her.” Yuri shook her 
head in dissent. 

“I cannot tell which one it was,” she said sadly. 
“There were many of them, coming, going, laughing, 
crying, love and sorrow. That is life. The Great 
Buddha sent her to me, of that I am sure, for I have 
the great content now.” Her eyes followed their de¬ 
parture, a sombre, colorless figure beside the brilliant 
attire of the girl beside her. 

She tottered to the house with short, pigeon steps, a 
bit of Old Japan, clinging restlessly to its old customs 
and old beliefs. Cherry Blossom followed her, first 


80 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


watching Chu Chu as she gathered up the dresses and 
placed them back in the box, and locked them very 
carefully, as if in fear the precious, perishing keep¬ 
sakes, with their dying memories, might escape. 

Yuri’s arm swept Cherry Blossom to her bosom as, 
she removed her clogs at the shoji, and entered. She 
regarded her wistfully between her embraces, her small 
frame convulsed with grief. 

“O-Sakurado, Sakurado,” she wept, repeating the 
name over and over with little moaning cries. “0- 
Sakurado.” 

The girl patted her wet cheeks, frightened at her 
unwonted agitation, murmuring tender, broken words 
of endearment, bits of childhood days, to calm her, as 
she nestled confidingly against her. 

Yuri raised her head, making visible efforts to com¬ 
pose herself. She pushed the girl from her, studying 
the effect of her confession on her. 

“Sakurado,” she said solemnly, “Yuri has told the 
honorable foreigners a bad lie. The Great Buddha will 
punish her for it. To you, she cannot lie any more. 
You must know the truth. Sakurado, the little white 
baby did not die at all. It lived. You, my Sakurado, 
are the little white baby. Yuri loved you so, she could 
not give you up. Perhaps Buddha not strike so hard 
now. Poor Yuri. She is not your real mother.” 

“Not my real mother? O, Yuri, Yuri, not my 
mother ?” Cherry Blossom wildly cried, throwing her¬ 
self in an abandon of sorrow on the floor, struggling 
with her anguish over the confession. “0, I wish 
Buddha would kill poor Sakurado. Her heart is break¬ 
ing, too, Yuri. Still, my Lily-mother, Yuri, why did 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


81 


you tell me at all ? Why ? Why ? It was wrong to tell me. 
It can do no good now, after all these years. You will 
always be my mother, Yuri.” She sobbed unrestrain- 
edly, then they clung to each other, bitterly weeping 
afresh as the truth was gradually realized; there was 
comfort in each other’s arms. 

Chu Chu, convinced of some unusual calamity—for 
did not the honorable foreigners always bring it ?— 
gravely measured out and brought to them two cups of 
the honorable tea, checking their emotion to some 
extent. According to the great Sho-rei Hikke, grief 
betrayed was worse than any exhibition of immorality, 
for the City of the Nine Gates, the body, must be con¬ 
sidered merely as the house of the soul; it is the mind 
that makes things wicked. This inherent repression 
has developed a peculiar stoicism, an apparent super¬ 
ficiality of feeling, and soon both women had seemingly 
banished their troubles, refreshed by the beverage. 

“Perhaps my American father take me away,” Cherry 
Blossom said, abruptly, her mind revolving on the 
strange circumstances engulfing her. “Perhaps the 
Honorable Foreigners come back right away, Yuri? 
They make poor weeping Yuri speak the truth at last., 
Americans very cruel. Timi says they never put 
prayers to hang on the trees; they have no gods. How, 
then, can they be good?” She rose to her feet, her 
cheeks flushed with a new rebellion. 

“I—Japanese girl,” she struck her breast proudly. 
“I never leave Japan. What need money for ? I have 
what I want. Nobody can make me go. I marry Shiko 
and be great Japanese lady. Today I go to Shiko’s 
Honorable Family and arrange it. We marry at once. 


82 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Yes, Yuri-mother ? And Shiko have a little house made 
for Yuri, too, I am sure.” 

“Nice Japanese girls do not go to see honorable lover’s 
family,” Yuri corrected her politely. “I go, too. It 
is the wish of Buddha. Perhaps Samurai Moroshito 
want marriage at once.” 

Their spirits revived under such happy contempla¬ 
tions, and in the excited preparations for the visit, the 
poignancy of their fears was lost. Chu Chu called in 
Slender Bamboo to arrange their coiffures, promising 
pay at the time of the grand marriage, for they did not 
intend to leave any cause for criticism that would make 
Mama Moroshito complain of their ignorance again of 
the Elegant Manners. 

Yuri’s black, glistening hair was drawn over a pad, 
in a shining roll, for this was the distinction of being 
a married woman; and then it was delicately brushed 
with the paste so that it made a glossy frame for her 
thin, wrinkled, brown face. It was different with 
Cherry Blossom, for a heavy application of camellia oil 
was made to her lustrous bronze locks, and she sub¬ 
mitted with patience to a very tedious construction of 
hair on top of her head in order to properly show off 
the glittering pins presented to her by her future 
father-in-law. 

Yuri could not afford a rickshaw; it was not very 
elegant to walk along the dusty road, picking one’s way 
gingerly over stones, with silk stockings on. But then, 
everybody knew she was going to have a rich son-in- 
law, and perhaps by the end of the week, if the wedding 
took place at once, she would be whirling along like an 
aristocrat, in a decorated kuruma, drawn by a coolie, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


83 


with a new purple silk sunshade. It is wealth indeed 
to have a “daughter” to barter. 

They had first to stop at the silk-worm plant, for here 
it was that the energetic samurai as a rule was to be 
found; and they must not temporize. By a fortunate 
coincidence, Mama Moroshito was also there, for it waa 
a day of important events with the proud Moroshito 
family, and all of their friends were assembled in the 
industrial plant; for the worms were finishing their 
cocoons, the older growth, and vanity impelled the 
noble head of the firm to invite his envious acquaint¬ 
ances to witness the completion of the product that 
would mean several millions of yen in riches. 

# Today his silk workers were busied, to the point of 
diligence, killing the moths by immersing them in boil¬ 
ing water and letting them remain until cooked. In 
this unique method, there was no necessity to sever the 
valuable silk fiber, accomplishing its ruin, as so often 
happens when the moths are allowed to emerge from 
the cocoons as nature intended, by their own fettered 
efforts. 


Miss Sunrise was giving quick, curt, business-like 
commands to her band of assistants, engineering the 
slaughter; occasionally, when no one was looking, a 
worm, boiled, more succulent than others, found its way 
surreptitiously into her mouth. It was a luxury which 
otherwise her meager income did not permit. 

The arrival of Yuri and Cherry Blossom precipitated 
their labors into confusion for a few minutes as the 
former acquaintances of the prospective bride of the 
great man’s son gazed in awe and envy at the gorgeous 
raiment she had donned for the occasion. 


84 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


In the main work room, where the moths were being 
boiled, stood Mama Moroshito, waiting stolidly in her 
heavy silk kimono for her honorable husband to return, 
after he had exhibited to his friends a new process for 
tinting the fiber by providing colored food for the 
worms, in the next room. She could hear their elabor¬ 
ate, meaningless phrases of politeness and their flatter¬ 
ing deferences of action and word to him. 

An avalanche of excitement descended on her tran¬ 
quility, as Yuri made a profound obeisance before her, 
for being the mother of the prospective bridegroom had 
indisputable advantages over being merely the mother 
of the prospective bride. Mama Moroshito received this 
necessary homage in silence. She had not forgiven 
Cherry Blossom by any means for beguiling her honor¬ 
able son into an engagement when she had no dowry. 
There would be punishment, even if she had to wait 
until the bride was brought to live with her. 

In brief minutes one can often pass swiftly through 
a transition of emotion which many seldom undergo in 
a lifetime—grief, despair, surprise, humiliation, pride 
—the gamut of mental suffering. Cherry Blossom very 
properly approached the Honorable Moroshitos with 
her implorations, only to be rudely repulsed. The de¬ 
ceit of Yuri, in concealing the girl’s nativity, included 
her in its guilt. 

The noble samurai’s descendant listened, concealing 
his inward rejoicing. The far-seeing Buddha had 
generously responded to his prayer, and he would be 
wearing the luxurious sable coat when the Great Heat 
had passed. One could endure much bodily discomfort 
when covered with priceless fur. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


85 


Cherry Blossom’s suffering did not impress her 
haughty, invulnerable judges at all. Tears to them 
were merely so much waste water that the body must 
exude. Grief was as reprehensible as any other physi¬ 
cal exposure. To exhibit any emotion was as improper 
as to disclose a portion of the body. To cry showed a 
deplorable lack of education. They were, in fact, ex¬ 
ceedingly bored at this unnecessary, disagreeable, noisy 
loccurrence. 

Once, Shiko, warming to her tears and supplications, 
turned his closely-cropped dark head in her direction, 
but not for the second time. The proud Moroshito put 
one slippered foot between them as Shiko half turned 
toward her, persuaded by her lovely distress. It was 
a beautiful picture of grief she made, clad in the ex¬ 
pensive kimono which only a few days ago his mother 
had bestowed on her for the customary engagement gift. 
Silk though it was, glittering with its threads of spun 
silver, it was but a poor frame for her beauty, and his 
weak, abused emotions pulsated wildly, through him in 
uncontrolled fire at the sight of her, making his limbs 
tremble. 

“It is the law of race,” the icy tones of the great 
Moroshito fell as sharp bits of steel, cutting in their 
precision, inflexible. “Tomorrow, Shiko will be pledged 
to Morning Dew, who stands rightly beside him now, to 
protect him from such as you. Her honorable father is 
Japanese. So will their many children be. Race is 
race.” 

Cherry Blossom looked piteously around at her cruel 
judges, hurt, angry, shamed, her maidenly virtues 
dragged in the dust. But pride, slowly rising, like the 


86 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

gradual encroachment of the flame that devours its 
way through all obstacle, leaped into sudden life. She 
stamped her little foot in indignation, tearing off the 
jeweled pins Papa Moroshito had brought her as his 
gift, and throwing them to the floor, ground them under 
her clogs so that their expensive shaping became a 
twisted mass, their beauty destroyed. 

Yuri, a sombre cloud behind her all of this time, 
sprang into view, raising an avenging fist high in the 
air. 

“Damn you,” her gentle, monotonous voice sang out 
with wrath, as they swept out, a startling malediction 
from her insignificant, gentle presence. “I say, damn 
you,” she called back over her shoulder as they de¬ 
parted. 

At the other end of the room, Miss Sunrise had been 
intently listening, while she pretended an engrossment 
in the worms that was entirely unnecessary. The co¬ 
coons lost all interest compared with this new scandal; 
her narrow, beady eyes took on an amused expression. 
Her prophecy was coming true. She could forgive 
immorality in the girl but never her beauty. She sav¬ 
agely gave the innocent worms a shake of anger on their 
trays, getting the next growth in readiness for their little 
journey of industry. 

“Sakurado,” she half-whispered over the pots of boil¬ 
ing worms, from which she was taking the cocoons, at the 
other side of the case. She motioned her indolent work¬ 
ers around the room to assemble in order to relish the 
discomfiture of her rival. 

“Sakurado.” Her voice rose higher. Cherry Blos¬ 
som, discreet in her actions, suspecting some ruse, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


87 


merely glanced in her direction. It was more of an 
affront in its studied indifference than a reply would 
have been. “I always said you would be his geisha 
first/’ sneered Miss Sunrise, failing to draw the girl to 
her side by any deception of friendliness. “I am sorry 
I cannot ask you to come back now. They will not want 
any like you here now. We have to be very particular, 
you know, because of the greatness of the proud Moro- 
shito’s name. He would not allow it, of that I am very 
sure, for you never worked well, anyway. If it had 

not been for his son-.” But her words failed to 

reach them, for Cherry Blossom, followed solemnly by 
Yuri, had already disappeared into the dark, narrow 
entrance leading outdoors, while the happy Moroshitos 
were congratulating themselves upon the miraculous de¬ 
livery of their beloved first-born, and were planning 
his immediate marriage to the thread-merchant’s ugly 
daughter, Morning Dew. 

Shiko, however, had mysteriously disappeared, verit¬ 
ably under the eyes of the girl who had stood beside him. 
Morning Dew did not especially like Shiko, but her 
proud parent did, and like all dutiful Japanese maidens, 
that was more important. There was some one else con¬ 
tinually in her thoughts; once or twice she had seen 
him riding in the rickshaws from the big Embassy, a 
man of her own race, but of the newer generation, and 
he had regarded her with so much admiration that her 
virgin heart still fluttered coyly at the remembrance of 
it. There were other occasions, too, cherished in her 
innermost thoughts, silently, as precious jewels are re¬ 
counted in the dark, when one is alone. She gave a 
sigh of resignation: Shiko would probably be as good a 



88 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


husband as other men, and the gods would punish her 
if she disobeyed her honorable father. For that was 
woman—mother, wife, sister or daughter born, for 
obedience to their men, right or wrong. 

His passions inflamed, forbidden to see her again, 
Shiko was unable to give Cherry Blossom up, and he 
stealthily followed the two women out, hiding in the 
shadows until they had once passed, and until he was 
beyond paternal vigilance. He hastily ran after the 
fluttering silk kimono, grabbing the folds to prevent 
the girl’s advance. 

“Cherry Blossom,” he breathed softly behind her. She 
turned her proud little head in his direction. He took 
advantage of her indecision and stepped beside her, leav¬ 
ing Yuri in the background. 

“You see, I must not speak against my honorable par¬ 
ents, who have brought me into this world,” he excused 
himself lamely. “But Shiko thinks very much. He 
still loves his Sakurado. She is always the beautiful 
blossom to him. Even if the honorable parents do not 
allow me to marry her, I can still love her, and see her 
every day, perhaps. I will make her my first geisha 
girl, so she can always be with Shiko. This will I do.” 

A sharp, stinging blow from Yuri’s hand fell swiftly 
on his cheek. It sent him stumbling to the ground. A 
noisy titter from the windows behind them indicated 
that Miss Sunrise and her sympathizers had witnessed 
the mortifying procedure. Shiko slowly rose to his 
feet, his narrow, gaunt face reddened with anger. 

“You black dog,” cried Yuri in ferocity, her eyes 
stormy. “May the Good Buddha shrivel the tongue in 
your head, to insult my white lady girl. You black dog.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


89 


Shiko rose slowly from the ground, his hand fingering 
his smarting cheek on which Yuri’s blow, merciless in 
its power, despite her frail physique, had left a dull, 
discolored spot. It awoke into relentless activity all 
of the vicious forces of his weak nature. He hated 
Yuri and her gentle voice and her meek face; her alert 
faculties, always anticipating his well-deliberated mach¬ 
inations, thwarted him always with his own weapons. 

His frenzied desire to possess Cherry Blossom had 
never been so acute, so dominant, as now, when she was 
taken from him by paternal mandates. Reckless as to 
consequences, with disregard for the rigid exactions of 
the proprieties, Shiko evolved a plan by which he would 
accomplish his desire. 

There was only one way, and that was plainly through 
Hawaka. By tempting his avaricious greed, and a 
proper dosage of cajolery, perhaps he could persuade 
him to lend assistance; and between them there was 
no fear of reproaches, or accusations, for the standards 
of the one were as low as the morality of the other was 
lax. 

That blow of Yuri’s—he cursed her for it under his 
breath, following the forms of the two women down the 
road, with vengeance in his gaze. He would punish her 
for it. One struck where it hurt the most. She should 
suffer through the girl she loved and defended from 
him. He laughed sardonically, as he visualized his 
plans. 

He leapt agilely over the dust road, and squatted on 
the sparse grass, looking down the bank, where below 
wound the lazy paths of the park, where the favorites 
of the Yoshiwara had begun their afternoon walk. 


90 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Canopies of silvered, faded green wistaria vines 
floated in tremulous curtains over their shapely lac¬ 
quered heads; it was a colorful procession of flaming 
purple silk and the scarlet of their profession, as they 
tripped on tiny feet over the man-made, sandy lanes, 
followed by a modest retainer of little girls, who were 
being made proficient in all of the wiles of the geisha, 
perhaps to take their places at future periods. 

Gay parasols, green, golden, and orange, shed varie¬ 
gated effulgence on the tea-colored faces, on which high 
lights of paint had been placed with skilful touch. 

Shiko regarded them with casual interest. They 
caught sight of him, far above, in the greenery, and 
waved a friendly hand, inviting to conquest; but he 
made a characteristic gesture, with his right arm, show¬ 
ing disinclination, and the line of brilliant color 
passed on. 

One, a thing of fire in her shining red kimono, hesi¬ 
tated, then joined step with the others. A bright yellow 
shawl marked the place she had stopped. 

Shiko, intrigued in spite of his stoicism, sprang 
lightly down the ledge, almost falling on top of an aged 
flower seller, whose boxes of dirt, with their odorous 
plants of violets and paper lilies upset, much to his 
indignation and the merriment of the little children in 
the wake of the painted ladies. 

“Moon-Glow,” panted Shiko, breathless from his exer¬ 
cise, as he held out the silk shawl. He tossed the curs¬ 
ing flower seller a sen, adding a kick from his shining 
leather shbes, as an inducement to move on. 

“Moon-Glow.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


91 


The woman in scarlet turned an indifferent face to 
him, walking on with her companions. 

“Your wrap,” said Shiko, with a profound bow, as 
he extended it. The little girls looked at him with won¬ 
dering eyes, covering their faces with tiny paper fans 
in maidenly confusion. 

The merry laughter at a whispered jest floated hack 
to him, and the beauties scattered under the deep hang¬ 
ing boughs of blossoming trees, here and there their 
gorgeous raiment showing amid the green leafage as 
some wonderful bouquet. 

Shiko looked ruefully at the silk in his hands, faintly 
perfumed with the languorous scent of sandalwood and 
rare, ravishing odors, feminine in its loveliness, full of 
sheen as the coquette herself. It was womanhood, sym¬ 
bolized—beautiful, luxurious, perishable, dropped in 
the dust, at his feet, to be scorned, or accepted, in light 
amusement. 

Custom, which permitted the tanaka yujo, the ladies 
of the Yoshiwara, their idle liberties, was man-made, 
affording them protection—just as the dirt paths wind¬ 
ing in and out of the fragrant park, planned by man’s 
cunning, with their bird perches, their quaint glimpses 
of a Shinto Temple in the background of cryptomeria 
trees. Man’s artifices supplied these landscapes with 
nature’s own artistry, even to carefully arranging the 
picturesque mounds of rocks where piebald lizards 
basked in the trickling yellow sunlight that fretted the 
surface. 

Between pink and white hanks, in graceful majesty, 
lustrous white swans glided, occasionally between their 
snowy bodies the golden carp leaped and sparkled like 


92 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


diamonds scattered by white bands through transparent, 
greenish sea water. 

Woman—a thing inferior, by nature, by customs, by 
men. Shiko cast the gleaming yellow shawl, irridescent 
in its brilliancy, on the ground, crushing its satiny 
surface with his foot, to show his intolerance of the sex. 
Only one woman possessed any fascination for him, the 
power to attract him now, and his brows contracted in 
gloom as he made his way to the thoroughfare where 
swift-running rickshaws tossed up acrid, stifling clouds 
of dust. 


CHAPTER VX 


They walked rapidly in the heavy dust over the road 
down which they had so jubilantly come, dejected at 
the unexpected result of their visit, faced by the dis¬ 
couraging prospects of the future. The soft yellow 
earth discolored their white stockings. Deprived of the 
possibility of a rich son-in-law, Yuri became suddenly 
miserly. Even by practising the strictest economy, such 
luxuries could not last long, and repeated washing had 
left its effect already on them. It is hard to be poor, 
even when one is blessed by the gods with youth and 
beauty; but when one is old, and no longer possesses any 
charms, and is condemned to ugly, much-mended gar¬ 
ments, it partakes of despair. Yuri dared not contem¬ 
plate the grim realities beyond the present; she was 
afraid, for she did not know where to turn for aid. 
Deluded by the vain dreams of the betrothal, they had 
both forfeited the pittances that represented their daily 
existence, and with this gone, the situation was indeed 
critical. 

Cherry Blossom, sanguine because of her youth, 
bounded ahead, her troubles only momentary. 

“Hawaka will help,” she turned her head so that 
Yuri, trudging bravely behind, could hear; she did not 
see the furtive wiping of her eyes, so that her tears 
would not be detected. “Hawaka always tells us what 
to do. He speaks the good advice, whether we take it 
or not.” 


93 


94 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Yuri did not reply; her shining, lacquered head, the 
elaborate preparation of which had been in vain, moved 
stiffly in denial. 

“Hawaha never think at all,” she finally broke out, 
in decisive tones. “Hawaka never think at all except 
about Hawaka.” 

The patter of their clogs made the only sound, save 
for the lonely cry of a starling seeking its nest in the 
bamboo forest adjoining the truck farms. Cherry Blos¬ 
som paused midway in her walk, her radiant face all 
at once very grave; she regarded Yuri’s little, insignifi¬ 
cant form in its over-resplendent kimono in deep serious¬ 
ness, her eyes clouded. 

“If I am the white lady’s little white baby, then 
Hawaka is not my brother.” She spoke slowly, her 
cheeks flushed with excitement at her discovery. Yuri 
stopped, her hand over her heart, as if to steady her¬ 
self; her breath quickened. She threw a piteous look 
at the girl, all unconscious of the torture she was suffer¬ 
ing. She had always feared it, her discovery. It had 
come; she would have to answer it. She drew herself 
together with an effort, striving for calmness. 

“Hawaka is—not your brother,” she said in a hard, 
dry tone; it was not at all like her usual soothing, 
gentle voice. 

“Then I marry Hawaka.” Cherry Blossom danced 
gaily up and down, delighted at having found a solu¬ 
tion to their predicament. “Already we great friends, 
and always he leaves me at least a little piece of pickled 
fish when he eats. I am so glad. ... We can be very 
happy. . . ” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 95 

“No . . . Yuri's hand, small though it was, fell 
heavily on the gay green kimono. Her black eyes blazed 
like red-hot coals in her wrinkled sad face. ‘‘No. . . 
She put her hand over her eyes, shutting out unpleasant 
memories. “You never marry—Hawaka_” She hesi¬ 

tated, striving for courage under the girl's clear gaze. 
She must tell the truth once for all; all these years she 
had lied, temporizing, hoping that it might not be neces¬ 
sary. Lately, more than once she had noticed Hawaka's 
lustful eyes feeding on the girl's charms, and it had sent 
a dull terror through her, making her fearful, apprehen¬ 
sive of their companionship. She choked convulsively, 
unable to continue. “Hawaka—bad, all through. You 
hear ? He a geisha son. His father, nobody know— 
there were so many of them. . . ” She covered her 
face with her hands, in shame at her confession. Cherry 
Blossom took a step back, away from her, in silent 
horror; she was dazed, petrified—shocked more than 
words could explain. 

She began to cry helplessly, her faith in the little 
brown woman destroyed. . . all of her little tender re¬ 
membrances of her early childhood seemed blotted with 
this ugly knowledge. ... She sobbed unrestrainedly, 
her whole being crushed under the revelation. 

“What matters ?" Yuri went on brokenly, in a flame 
of defense. “One must live. And when my American 
lord died, so good to me, so kind, there was no money. 
What little had been left must go for a tomb or his 
soul would never reach Nirvana and we would be shamed 
by the gods. Then it was I had to close the House of 
Sorrow. There was no money. Days did I go with¬ 
out bread. Days did I pray to Buddha for even a crust. 


96 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


I could dance, I could sing, I could play the samisen. 
Men are so easily amused by other women when they 
already have a wife. Anything different pleases them; 
if their wife is good, then it is a wicked woman they 
want. If the wife is wicked, then it must he a good 
woman. It was not a disgrace to go into the Yoshiwara. 
By and by I made enough money to buy the little house; 
by and by I had enough saved up to leave, for Hawaka 
was coming; the Great God Jizo was sending him to 
me, so I would always remember, always he tortured, 
because I sold my soul—when I sold my body. So do 
the gods punish. There is no love for babies in the 
Yoshiwara. So, you see”—she gave a little pitiful 
gesture, in which resignation, shame and despair were 
combined. Cherry Blossom did not look around. She 
had heard every word, at first intolerant of its mean¬ 
ing; then apathetically, each word smarting the wound 
in her heart. It was the custom of her country. Yuri 
had not sinned. Many women accepted the life of the 
painted women of the Yoshiwara as a profession, losing 
nothing by such slavery. But deep within the girl's 
nature, something warred against this outrageous prac¬ 
tice, condemning it and its victims who through ignor¬ 
ance and tradition supported it. It was a conflict of 
race, hut she did not know it. 

She walked steadfastly in advance, unable to rid 
herself of her gloomy thoughts; Yuri had hurt her, that 
feeling was uppermost in her mind. There might he 
other Japanese men who admired her; before long, who 
could tell, there might he another proposal. That very 
night she would make two prayers to the god of mar¬ 
riage, Gekkawo—one for a samurai husband, and one 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


97 


for an honorable eel merchant; for, according to her 
country, Cherry Blossom was kokoro yasui, heart easy 
or love free; and it mattered very little to her whom she 
married so long as it prevented her from leaving the 
land she loved. Perhaps some day, when she was a 
very old woman with shaven eyebrows and blackened 
teeth, testifying that the springs of affection had ceased, 
she would go to that far away land where Timi said 
women were just as important as men, and even walked 
in front of them; but it was almost too dreadful to 
contemplate at present. 

They had planned, with reckless anticipation, what 
luxuries would be theirs after the great marriage; tears 
of disappointment welled in her throat as she regarded 
her soiled silk stockings; it was her last pair, and it 
would be a long time before she could afford others. 

But, with the elastic spirit of youth, as they ap¬ 
proached the cottage, she almost forgot the day’s un¬ 
pleasant happenings—except about Hawaka. That she 
could never forget. She changed her attire, and took 
her samisen from the comer, for perhaps it might be 
as well to practise her music again and be in readiness 
for the new lover Buddha was to send. 

But throughout all of her playing the despairing 
words of Yuri throbbed in her head, as if written in 
fire, torturing her. Yuri had hurt her; Yuri had lied 
to her, many, many years. She felt no pity for her 
because of her visible suffering in making the admission, 
for youth has an arrogance that condemns frailty. 

She sang dismal songs, finding inexpressible joy in 
repeating the sad words: 

“Hanaya, Yoku Kike, 


98 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Sho aru naraba, 

Hito ga fusagu ni, 

Naze hiraku?” 

It was very pathetic, indeed; it had a sinister lachry¬ 
mose effect on poor Yuri so that she wept furtively, be¬ 
tween spasmodic little puffs at her pipe, the kiseru, 
which she filled frequently from a silken tobacco pouch 
at her side, with pinches of the dried weed, and lighting 
it, delicately inhaled the fumes between her tears. It 
was the essence of refinement, but one does not smoke 
long in Japan; there is caution expressed in the adage, 
“At the bottom of the pipe lies poison.” So the brown 
little woman barely touched the stem of the brass pipe 
with her lips, knowing exactly when to stop; then the 
bead-embroidered pouch covered the tiny kiseru again 
and was hidden in the thick folds of her girdle or obi. 

Cherry Blossom’s voice was tremulous and ended in 
despairing wails, striving for an effect on the husbands 
the great god was to send. 

“O flower, hear me well, if thou hast a soul, 

When any one sorrows as I am sorrowing, why dost 
thou bloom?” 

She broke off suddenly; Yuri had hurt her; Yuri had 
lied to her. She felt as if every word she sang cut into 
her sensitive heart. It was the deceit, planned though 
it was to protect her, that hurt her the most. She could 
forgive Yuri’s life at the Yoshiwara—that belonged to 
the customs of the country, and many women of good 
family went there, and returned without losing any of 
the esteem of their friends because of it. But the lie 
about Hawaka—that was intolerable, and the gods 
punished for that. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


99 


She looked stoically at Yuri’s under-sized form across 
the room, shaking with her sobs. Despite her angry 
denunciation of her, somehow it sent a responsive vibra¬ 
tion through her. She pushed her samisen aside, slowly 
rising, impelled by the affection that even deceit could 
not stifle. She would never trust Yuri again, of that 
she was confident. Her hand fell on the bent head, 
softly stroking it. 

“Poor Yuri,” she said faintly, half-crying herself. 

Yuri raised her wet, swollen eyes to her, begging for 
clemency. All at once she seemed to have become the 
supplicator, their positions reversed. They clung to 
each other without words, in strange understanding. 

Cherry Blossom grabbed her samisen, and burst into 
that mirthful, irresistible bit of melody, as Yuri dried 
her tears: 

“Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden. 

Chan, Chan, 

Cha, Cha, 

Yoitomose, 

Yoitomose, 

Chan, Chan, Chan. 

Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden.” 

Soon Hawaka returned and they had their honorable 
rice and an especial extravagance of sweet millet cakes, 
which Chu Chu had baked because she scented the op¬ 
pressive atmosphere in the house, and when the stomach 
is full the mind is slow; and she believed in giving 
trouble no avenue by which to enter the body—that house 
of the soul. 


100 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Then it was that Yuri, with much hesitancy, advised 
Hawaka of the broken troth between the two families, 
but she was unprepared for the startling effect it had 
on him, for he jumped angrily to his feet, his face cruel 
and his narrow eyes blazing. The disruption between 
the proud and wealthy Moroshitos and Cherry Blossom 
was more than a shock to him. It had given him pres¬ 
tige among his companions and he had not hesitated to 
borrow money on the strength of his sister’s union with 
the samurai’s son. In fact, it had required many notes 
to prevent public exposure for his debts, and to have 
his dreams crumble thus unexpectedly made him tremble 
with a fury which he leveled at the two helpless women. 
There was nothing remaining out of the calamity, for 
he had even pledged the humble cottage in which they 
lived, for the son takes authority in all business transac¬ 
tions over the mother, and she is always at his dictation 
and command. 

They cowered on the floor, on their zabuton, afraid 
of his anger; vile names he called them, invoking the 
wrath of the gods, and vengeance for the treachery they 
practised on him. And the two women sat in patience 
until the storm of his wrath should be spent, Yuri, 
grinding her finger nails into her flesh, resisting a fierce, 
unholy desire to fall on him with all of her puny woman’s 
strength, and choke him—kill him. 

She had never liked him, offspring of passion that he 
was. She hated him, hated his cruel, angular face, his 
evasive, crafty eyes, his deceit. Yet, one must live, and 
the money he brought in—only Buddha knew where 
he got it, for he never worked—it paid for the day, and 
kept rice on the shrine of the Imperial Ancestors. And 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


101 

she was his mother; thus was the good Buddha punish¬ 
ing her. She hid her writhing face, groveling in her 
misery, powerless, as he abused her. 

“If Cherry Blossom not marry Shiko, then must 
she work,” Hawaka announced in a dictatorial manner. 
“Other Japanese girls bring in three yen a month. There 
is no reason why my sister be a lady and wear a silk 
kimono when she not work. She is young. She should 
bring good price every month.” 

Yuri raised her lacquered head, fear darting through, 
her. 

“Sakura is not strong; she cannot work hard,” she 
said quickly. 

“I get her work she can do,” Hawaka shook his head, 
his eyes snapping. “I know where she get good pay.” 

The girl jumped excitedly to her feet, and threw her 
arms around his neck, laughing and crying in one breath. 

“Good Hawaka. Good Hawaka. See, Mother Yuri, 
did I not say he would help ? He is always good.” 

Yuri drew her away with a peculiar action; a dread 
of impending danger shot through her. 

“Where is it ?” she asked sharply. “She can not walk 
far, with her little feet.” 

“I know good place. Yesterday Yeddo, the honor¬ 
able silk merchant, sent his two daughters there; he 
need the money for his big business, to buy more silk. 
The gods did not send him a son when he prayed; two 
girls eat much; they must work. Lots of fine girls go 
there, I know. What matters it ? Money is money, no 
matter how it grows. It makes no difference whether 
you make it with the head or the hands or the body.” 

“Ho, no,” Yuri wildly screamed, throwing up her 


102 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


hands in protest. “Never there, Hawaka; never there !” 
She caught Cherry Blossom and drew her to her, hold¬ 
ing her tight in her embrace as if to prevent him from 
carrying out his intentions. “Not the Yoshiwara. Not 
the Yoshiwara. Sakura is a good child—she is nothing 
more. The Yoshiwara makes them had. Perhaps the 
body is only the City of the Nine Gates, and a dwelling 
place for the soul, but, if one lives in a had house, one 
gets sick. One must keep the soul well as much as the 
body. I never let my little girl go there. Never. First 
would I kill her, so that she never suffer like that.” 

He shrugged his shoulders in contempt. Her argu¬ 
ments had no effect on him; it was even less than the 
whine of his dog, in anticipation of its bone. “The silk 
merchant, he has bigger tombs in his graveyard than 
you,” Hawaka said sullenly. “With many Jizo-Sama, 
and a bell in the left hand. He is a great man; and he 
has more than seven coolies. He let his two daughters 
go to help get money to make him rich. What harm ? 
By and by they old and nobody pay them money. One 
must live.” 

Yuri pressed her lips firmly together, checking her 
growing hostility toward him. She must not let him 
be aware of her intentions, and later on she would pre¬ 
tend sleep, to see what he would do. 

It was not long after that she withdrew into the ad¬ 
joining room, behind her screen, and placed her night 
lantern and her kiseru beside her wooden pillow; for 
often one smokes during the night, a few whiffs at the 
pipe making sleep more tranquil. 

Her breathing, regular, sonorous as one who dreams, 
misled him; he stepped in, noiseless in his stockings, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


103 


to assure himself that she was not deceiving him, then 
tiptoed out just as lightly, and drew his cushion over 
to the end of the room where Cherry Blossom was 
industriously making lace on a tiny white satin 
cushion. 

“Someday Sakura have nothing but silk kimonos to 
wear every day,” he said, persuasively, his cunning, 
brilliant eyes sharply watching her. “Some day, she 
ride in her own rickshaw, with a big brown satsuma, 
big, big legs that run so fast, to pull it. That is money. 
I know a fine gentleman who loves you, Sakura. He 
say he like very much to meet you. Some day when 
Yuri goes out I will take you to see him. You big girl 
now. You are not a child.” 

Cherry’s lips parted in delight. 

“And would he marry me ?” She clapped her hands 
joyfully.. She would not have to leave Japan; she could 
live there always now. 

Hawaka cautioned her not to awaken Yuri, who slept. 
One could be pleased just as much without making such 
a disagreeable noise. 

“What is marriage?” he said, lightly. “Married 
women have to work so hard; their lords treat them 
very badly; they grow lots of ugly children who do not 
mind them at all, and they get old and sick. What is 
marriage ?” 

Cherry Blossom blushed delicately, like the first flush 
of the dawn on the wan petals of a flower. She had 
her dreams, influenced though they were by traditions 
and a proper fear of the gods. Her white fingers flew 
swiftly over the net on which she was appliqueing a 
rich pattern; it was to have been her wedding veil, when 


104 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


the mysterious “Three-times-three” ceremony between 
the bride and groom takes place. She did not require it 
now; she would have to sell it, for they would need the 
money. She stifled a little sigh. 

“Tonight, I bring the gentleman here to see what a 
nice girl you are,” Hawaka whispered guardedly. “Per¬ 
haps he not like you at all. Who knows? The good 
Buddha makes so many more girls than men, and they 
are very cheap. Sakura will see what a fine gentleman 
her brother has picked out for her. Pretty soon I go 
out. By-and-by I come back and tap on the shoji. Yuri 
mother sleeps with her dreams and we will not awaken 
her. You and I will have great happiness with the 
gentleman. Perhaps he may want you to go with him 
at once, tonight.” 

Cherry Blossom nodded, in interest. She did not 
understand why it all should be so secret. It wmuld be 
nice to have a chance to wear the veil and not have to 
part with it. She waved Hawaka a merry salute, watch¬ 
ing him leave. It did not seem possible that he was as 
wicked as Yuri hinted; he was very kind to take all of 
this trouble about her. 

Yuri had heard it all. Once satisfied that he had 
gone and was already far up the road, she hastily arose, 
dressed with care, and made Cherry Blossom acquainted 
with her fears. 

She hastily packed some belongings of the girl in a 
large handkerchief, as is the custom, for there are few 
essentials of the wardrobe required, and they deliber¬ 
ated over what course of action to pursue. Hawaka 
might return at any time. Cherry Blossom must be 
safely out of the way before he came back. There was 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


105 


nothing for Yuri to fear. He had seen that she was 
asleep when he talked with the girl, and she would not 
be suspected of abetting her in her flight. 

But where could she go ? 

“Timi may know / 7 suggested Cherry Blossom, so 
they rushed across the little yard that separated the two 
tiny huts, realizing the necessity of haste. 

Timi, a masculinely attired figure in her neat tweed 
suit, came rushing out and embraced them warmly. 

“I °nly wish I could help you, dear Cherry Blossom,” 
she said. “But this I must warn you of. Do not let 
Blower Garden persuade you into being a hired wife.” 

“Never that,” interrupted Yuri, quickly, raising her 
thin arm in defiance. 

Never that, Timi. You are right. Flower Garden 
means nothing wrong, but she does not know what is 
right . 77 

“The women of Japan themselves are to blame that 
this curse is upon them , 77 said Timi, in her clarion voice. 
“Look at me. My legs are straight, I am tall, strong, 
clear minded. Why ? Because every day, in that far- 
off land over the ocean, did I walk, and run, and march 
with the Scouts until my legs grew and stretched out 
as nature intended. I had lessons in the schools with 
boys beside me. I learned what they did, I knew as 
much. Sometimes I knew more. Boys are often very 
stupid. I was allowed to think, to talk, to say what I 
felt. I sat on chairs, so my legs would keep straight 
and long. Look at the women around you here. As 
children, their little brothers and sisters are strapped 
on their backs, dwarfing their bodies, weakening their 
backs. They sit cramped on the floor, their legs having 


106 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


no place to stretch, curved unnaturally under them. They 
have no exercise to keep their bodies healthy and young, 
they have no exercise to keep their minds active. Why ? 
It is the fault of the men. Man-made customs; man¬ 
made rules. It is better for their needs to keep us so, 
to keep us back. I see a new Japan coming, a race of 
new women, leaders, untrammeled in their customs, tak¬ 
ing their place side by side with men. Some day they 
will be proud to call us equals here. Instead, now we 
are slaves. Be careful, Cherry Blossom, where your 
steps lead you. I am sure Flower Garden is not doing 
anything wrong from her point of view. Then she is 
not sinning. But when you know it is wrong, and be¬ 
lieve it is wrong, it is a terrible sin that you are com¬ 
mitting. Good luck to you, Cherry Blossom. Some 
day you will see Timi was right. Some day a big 
disaster will strike here, and tear down old buildings 
and old customs. Out of the destruction will come 
beautiful new houses, new types of women and men, all 
working to help each other. There will he little armies 
of our girls and women marching, in comfortable cloth- 
women’s clubs, where women can talk and develop 
ing—Scouts, they call it in America. We will have 
thinking for themselves. You shall see.” 

Yuri and Cherry Blossom had no time to lose. They 
decided to seek out the old picture dealer, Osaka, who 
had so unexpectedly befriended the girl before, to his 
own profit as well. Perhaps there were other Hishi- 
gawas to be sold. One could never tell. At any rate, 
she would be safe there, when even the curious eyes 
of her former lover failed to discover the deception. 
Under cover of the darkness, they made their way along 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


107 


the roads that Hawaka would not take. Here lovers 
often strolled, plighting their vows, and offering liba¬ 
tions to the Honorable Moon, O-Tsuki-Sama, and the 
red and green eyes of the dragon lanterns shone through 
tangles of thorns and wistaria, lighting their path. 


CHAPTER VII 


Haw aka disappeared under cover of the darkness 
toward the Honjo. It was here that the lowest class 
of people, day laborers, as well as beggars and the out¬ 
casts of humanity had their living quarters, sordid 
though they may he. This was one of the kichinyador, 
or inns, which the police permit to be operated, though 
often aware that the most flagrant crimes and vices are 
practised within. 

But Hawaka could not discriminate in his forms of 
pleasure. He had very little money. And again, it 
was not a night’s rest he was seeking, hut a safe place 
in which to gamble. 

He entered a house, the door of which was always 
open in order to attract patronage and often robbers. 
He looked carelessly at the ill-assorted crowd, who re¬ 
garded him with hostility as not being exactly one. of 
their kind. Hor was Hawaka accustomed to being 
among them, although their pleasures and their vices 
were his. 

The air, fetid because of lack of ventilation, reeked 
with foul body odors of the motley assemblage. Coolies, 
toothless, evil-eyed, their garments wet with the per¬ 
spiration of toil, bandied words with stall-keepers who 
sold flowers made out of dough, menials of the hake- 
shops. Grimy-faced workers from the rice-fields, hare- 


108 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


109 


legged, tormented the vendors of boiled fish, plundering 
half-empty cans of their final contents. There were 
others, outcasts and pariahs, the unwashed and unclean, 
accompanied by painted denizens of the street, women 
whose morality was below the standards of those of the 
Yoshiwara, where the fiery furnace of lust was fed by 
over three thousand victims. 

Knife grinders, wicked of countenance, leered slyly 
at one to discover easy approaches for theft. The hawk¬ 
ers of soup, honorable enough as to calling, claimed 
courtesy from their neighbors in poverty, the clog- 
menders, hut hot words arising, each fell back on his 
own ground, scenting trouble. 

Hawaka greeted them familiarly, assuming an equal¬ 
ity with them that inwardly he did not feel. But dis¬ 
cretion had taught him the value of friendliness in the 
Hon jo. 

A mass of soiled, ragged bedding, the futon, showed 
in one comer, where they would all he sleeping, arm to 
arm, later on the floor. Already here and there a man’s 
figure was outlined vaguely in the shadows, sonorously 
passing off into dreams, insensible to his beggarly 
surroundings. 

A half-broken fire box furnished the only heat which 
the chill of the evening demanded, in its scant handful 
of charcoal. On their knees before it crouched some 
dirty coolies, nibbling greedily at hard little rice cakes 
to satisfy their hunger, their bony hands red in streaks 
where the traces or shafts of the rickshaw cut the skin. 

Cries of anger and despair, and the wail of hunger, 
at times rose above the growls of half-starved dogs, 
the scavengers of the crumbling hovels, which prowled 


110 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


in the darkness, vicious through want of food and drink. 
Beasts were they all, the animal not more than the 
human, except that nature had provided the latter with 
the greater capability for suffering—and protected the 
dumb brute by rendering it less susceptible to pain. 

Hawaka waited till some of the coolies were pros¬ 
trate in slumber on the floor; then the proprietor silently 
beckoned him, opening a tiny door no bigger than the 
breadth of a man’s shoulders, a black hole in the dim 
light, and they crept down some narrow stairs, entering 
a low-ceilinged room underground; yet it was not un¬ 
comfortable, and here could they play uninterruptedly, 
for hours, if necessary, and smoke the “pipe.” For 
Hawaka was equally fond of the drug as well as the 
gaming table, and life to him meant only the oppor¬ 
tunities afforded by chance for such indulgences. 

Silent, almost motionless, rigid in their earnestness, 
with the clerk from the office, the three men played as 
time passed. A few sounds, faint, harsh, crept down 
from the room above them, the lewd songs of some of 
the coolies; some women had joined the crowd, wives of 
the laborers, hired out by their masters, and they joined 
in, in flat unmusical tones, coarse shouts of laughter 
greeting their verses. It was called the shinnai, and 
amid its bars one could hear the snarl of quarrels be¬ 
tween men, or the pitiful sobs of a young girl, crouched 
alone in one corner, who had been brought in by a rick¬ 
shaw man and who refused to allow him to come near 
her. For two sen a bowl, they could eat udon, that 
favorite of many of the working class. But no one here 
had two sen to spend on such luxuries, it would seem. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


111 


“Beaten, Hawaka,” whispered the proprietor of the 
kichinyador. He was a bloated, white-faced Oriental, 
with thick Mongolian lips and hideous eyes—eyes that 
combined the glitter of a serpent with the bestial glare 
of an animal. 

“Once again, Masuki.” His voice betrayed no trace 
of the fear he entertained for the inn keeper. It was 
imperious, and not eager. 

The cards and dice thrown on the table made the only 
sound to break the stillness in the room. The songs 
above had ceased; they were too far underground to 
catch any of the street noises, and besides there was 
neither window nor door to admit such. A lantern 
above cast a flame of red over Matsuki’s ugly face; he 
knew he would win, just as he was certain of what the 
stakes were to be. He had played thus with Hawaka 
for over a year; the boy had never paid the debt; in 
fact, Matsuki always made sure that he could not be¬ 
fore entering the game, for he did not want to be paid 
in money. That was it. There was something better 
than money at stake, and each played with deadly skill, 
determined to win. 

“Beaten, Hawaka,” whispered the keeper of the 
kichinyador for the second time, his long fingers draw¬ 
ing in the dice. He looked at Hawaka’s imperturbable 
face cruelly. And although he hated him for the treach¬ 
ery and wickedness he knew he possessed, yet he ad¬ 
mired his control of emotion, which kept every facial 
muscle in check, his expression unchanging. “Tomor¬ 
row, you pay up. Hear? I give you one day. After 
that, we shall see, my young lord. We shall see.” 


112 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“Have it your way,” Hawaka arose gracefully, al¬ 
though his heart was beating in terror at the unleashed 
savagery in Matsuki’s eyes. “You win. I lose.” 

“Tomorrow you pay ? Hear ?” Matsuki shook his arm 
with no little strength, showing his long yellow teeth, 
like an animal waiting for prey. 

“As you say,” Hawaka replied, indifferently. He 
could not ascend the stairs until the clerk unlocked the 
tiny door at the top, which had been secured when they 
came down. His stoicism carried him over a dangerous 
minute. He knew he was powerless in their hands, just 
as well as he understood that Matsuki did not want 
money for the debt. Otherwise, they would have killed 
him, secure in the secret hiding place under ground, 
fully aware that the police would never know. There 
had been other disappearances in the Hon jo. Nobody 
bothered, and it made less charity for the government 
to dispense, or room for another derelict in the inn. But 
Hawaka knew he was more valuable to Matsuki and 
his schemes living than dead. 

“I say, hurry, will you?” he ordered imperiously, 
his arrogance saving his neck. The clerk, an emaciated, 
ghoul-faced creature in a dirty blue coat and frayed 
wadded breeches, ascended the steps rat-fashion, looking 
not unlike the pest with his oily head and misshapen 
form. The key turned the lock, the door shoved noise¬ 
lessly open, and followed by Matsuki, Hawaka came 
next. 

His insolence took on greater strength as he felt him¬ 
self safe. He tossed a sen on the counter with a grandilo¬ 
quent mien. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


113 


“Give that to your Buddha in prayers,” he said, 
strutting toward the door. 

“Sayonara! Sayonara!” 

Matsuki rushed after him, not confident of his 
intentions. 

“Tomorrow,” he said meaningly. 

But Hawaka had turned the corner of the house; even 
if he had heard he would have given no sign; on ground 
he was safe. Matsuki could rant and threaten as much 
as he liked. When he made up his mind he would pay 
the debt in his own fashion. 

It was not late. The moon, a silver hall in the sky, 
hung half-way up, between heaven and earth. He 
slouched against the side of a stall, where bruised fish 
were sold in the day-time; the odors emitted were not 
pleasant, hut he wanted to think. Matched against the 
cunning of the inn-keeper, Hawaka could hold his own. 
He would beat the crafty gamester at his own game. He 
incurred the debt for money, and it should he paid back 
in money. There was a way to earn it. 

The City of Forbidden Women lies behind a big en¬ 
trance gate, the Omon; the tram stops at the Kaminari 
Mon, or Thunder Gate of the park. Under the twelve- 
story tower there is a street along its north side where 
profligates and vagabonds loiter; and rickshaw men, 
young, vigorous, rush their fare to favorite haunts in 
their fleet-wheeled vehicles—past the Look-Back Willow 
Tree, whose tradition of the sweetheart, reluctant at the 
parting with her lover at dawn, as he looked back, is 
the one monument, intangible though it is, to sentiment, 
in this place where souls are bartered for money. 


114 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


The Omon, or Great Gate, is the only passage into 
the Yoshiwara. Hawaka, familiar with the way, swung 
boldly along the street, for custom in the Orient sanc¬ 
tions this, and one is not forced to concealment or eva¬ 
sion. From the guide houses, the mellow, harsh sound 
of a samisen, accompanied by the unmusical thumping 
of a drum from upstairs rooms, fitted in with the many 
noises arising from the thoroughfare. 

Behind latticed fronts, the flaunting red and purple 
silk kimonos of the painted girls, lure of the houses, 
showed; some, sullen-faced, puffed not ungracefully at 
long bamboo pipes, for here women universally smoke. 
At the end of the street, despite the hour, groups of 
people, curiosity seekers, men of the town, students, mer¬ 
chants of the better classes, not insensible to the demands 
of appetite, were testing the savories of rice, or bean and 
sugar cakes while enjoying their tepid sake. Pretty 
young girls, almond-eyed, gaily dressed, served their 
customers, with expressive smiles and languishing airs. 
Hawaka did not have sufficient money to patronize such 
luxuries; he knew one of the girls; often a kiss secured 
a bean cake, and he never hesitated to try its efficacy. 
Then, too, it was fashionable to be seen among the swells 
at the Yoshiwara, indicating as it did the possession of 
money and certain standing. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the east and west, favors 
to the old sick one,” a beggar, concealed among the pros¬ 
perous crowd, whined incessantly, over and over, in the 
fretful inflections of the mendicant. 

Hawaka waved his hand at pretty little Yellow Poppy, 
who had enjoyed his embraces before. Her eyes, alert, 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


115 


sly, motioned him to the side, where coolies brought the 
wares into the booth. 

He nudged the beggar to follow him. “Ladies of the 
east and west, favors to the old sick one,” monotonously 
chanted the filthy bundle of rags, conspicuous among the 
well-dressed frequenters of the street. His plaintive re¬ 
frain caught Yellow Poppy’s sharp little ears; her face 
mute with pity, she thrust her hand under the shelf 
and snatched some cakes and other edibles, held in re¬ 
serve for expected crowds. Hawaka leant insinuatingly 
toward her, reaching out for the generous supply she 
held. 

“Good Yellow Poppy,” he murmured tenderly, “I 
shall say seven prayers to Buddha to bless you.” And as 
he took the bean cakes and the rice and fish from her, 
he stole a kiss in the dark, for he knew it was expected 
of him; and then, too, it helped pay for what he in¬ 
tended to eat; and as for the beggar whose implorations 
had obtained it, he should be content with the scraps, if 
he left any. 

Greedily devouring, Hawaka sped away to a safe re¬ 
treat, thankful for the dimness of the lanterns. If Yel¬ 
low Poppy ever upbraided him for it, he would pit his 
honor against that of a beggar, and also remind her that 
the stall-keeper prohibited any dispensation of favors. 
Then, too, there was always the magic of a kiss. 

Secure, satisfied, he directed his attention to the ac¬ 
complishment of the plan by which he hoped to thwart 
Matsuki. 


CHAPTER VIII 


June had passed, with its iris fetes; the proverbial 
six weeks of rain had ushered in the dreaded do-yo, or 
sultry days. Hot, damp clouds of steam made the air 
intolerable, and even though the goddesses are supposed 
to wash their garments in the Milky Way, the River 
of Heaven, at that time, it had little effect on the dis¬ 
agreeable density, which even superstition failed to 
relieve. 

Five hours distant by rail is Sun-Brightness—Nikko, 
which people love because of its golden shrines; and 
holy pilgrimages make white processions along its high¬ 
ways, paying reverence to the Shogun Tombs. A noisy 
stream, the Daiya-gawa, rushes beneath the giant crypto- 
merias, which solemnly guard their sacred treasures, and 
red lacquered bridges cross it to the Buddhist temple, 
where one can pray, and bask in all of the imagery of 
Yamata Damashii. 

Or there was Chuzenji, where fashionable life took 
up its abode, and indulged in bridge and tennis, while 
novitiates ascended the sacred mountain day and night. 

Twice already had Mrs. Denton’s Irish maid packed 
their trunks in preparation for the journey; but each 
time the Ambassador, harassed by accumulating politi¬ 
cal questions, worn out and tired, his fine ascetic face ex¬ 
hibiting the lines of care, had asked for postponement; 


116 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


117 


for their presence might he imperative in the capitol 
city, for a rivalry between the ancient army clan, Cho- 
Shu, and the equally old clan of the navy, the Satsuma, 
was not an omen of peaceful conditions, and without 
warning a grave issue might arise. 

“But you don’t think there is any danger, do you, my 
dear ?” Mrs. Denton interrupted her engrossment in her 
fancy work long enough to ask, aware of her husband’s 
incessant hours of application and the demands made 
on him by a constant string of visitors. “I hope nothing 
is wrong ?” 

“How shall I answer you, yes or no ?” he tried to re¬ 
ply, evasively. They were still in the breakfast room, 
and a native servant was bringing in repeatedly little 
pots of hot coffee and diminutive plates of tiny rice 
cakes. “The mind of the Oriental is unfathomable; 
while to the casual observer the cause may not seem im¬ 
portant, we can only guess at the seething, inextricable 
power below the surface.” 

“I thought it had something to do with the Boyal 
engagement?” Mrs. Denton always evinced a purely 
feminine interest, whenever possible. 

“Superficially, yes,” her husband put a lump of sugar 
in his cup, stirring it gravely, and reached out for an¬ 
other in his abstraction, but her agile hand caught his, 
and arrested the action; and sugar so hard to keep in 
these hot, steaming days. 

“Superficially,” he repeated, brought back to the sub¬ 
ject. “The mother of Princess Negako, who is betrothed 
to the Crown Prince, is a sister of Prince Shimaya, who 
is the head of the Satsuma clan. But the power behind 


118 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


the Imperial throne is Field-Marshal Yamata, who is 
the avowed leader of the Cho-Shu faction. I under¬ 
stand that it is he who is asking that the engagement 
he annulled, and this will start very serious trouble. For 
the Intellectuals will support the Imperial household, 
upholding the bethrothal. Hawaka, the Imperial Minis¬ 
ter, is also a Cho-Shu leader.” 

“It does not sound so serious,” Mrs. Denton put in, 
cheerfully. “Always the path of love, isn’t it ?” 

“My dear, for a diplomat’s wife, you evince little 
discrimination. I am repeating that this is given out 
as the reason; it is the surface only. We do not know 
what lies under it. There are the Korean malcontents 
to take sides, and that does not promise well. Yester¬ 
day, the home of the Field Marshal was rudely invaded, 
and he was ordered by an unknown foe to resign from 
the ministry. He has not done so yet. I must preserve 
the neutrality of the diplomat or I might utter some 
rash suggestions.” 

“And that is ?” 

Mr. Denton looked around the room, satisfied as to 
his purely domestic audience. Grace was answering 
long-neglected letters, as the mail left that day; and 
Cousin Em and the Major were lazily arguing as to the 
relative advantages of ice hags or thermos to reduce 
temperature. The weather made both very appropriate. 

“I think if a new Imperial minister were put in, it 
would all blow over,” said Mr. Denton to his wife. 
“There’s Baron Makino, a fine fellow, an Oxford man 
—in fact, a liberal. I’m sure it would bring immediate 
tranquility.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


119 


“Then why make so much of it?” she cried gaily, 
matching her silks for a new flower. “It is so 
unimportant.” 

Unimportant ?” The Ambassador arose and walked 
up and down the room, his hands behind his back, his 
brow clouded over knotty problems. “Is it unimportant 
to be awakened perhaps in the morning and find the 
whole town under heavy bombardment? Is it unim¬ 
portant if we should be unconsciously drawn into this 
vortex, forced to take sides, and have to bring American 
troops over here to determine our status ? Already the 
two clans are listing their supporters; in the streets of 
the Honjo there is fighting going on.” 

“Gracious, is it as bad as that ?” She jumped nerv¬ 
ously to her feet. Her work dropped unnoticed to the 
floor. Bombardments were serious, she well knew, with 
no possibility of getting out of the house, and food run¬ 
ning low, and in this climate, where the proverbial ice¬ 
box could not always be kept well filled. She had had 
experience once with a bombardment in Mexico, when 
the revolutionists ran shouting through the streets, with 
firebrands, and the memory of it and her terror had 
never deserted her. 

“Horace, will we really be bombarded?” she asked 
earnestly. 

“We won’t anticipate anything worse than what is 
happening now,” he reassured her. “But I think it might 
be safe for all of you to remain indoors for a while.” 

Taka, the functionary at the door, was at the thresh¬ 
old, with a profound bow. 

“The Imperial Minister presents his compliments, 
sir, and requests an immediate audience with you.” 


120 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Mr. Denton shook his head, disturbed, as he followed 
him into the ambassadorial offices. The visit assumed 
an ominous significance. 

“This is exciting, 7 ’ Cousin Em cried gaily, relighting 
her cigarette from an andon, or saucer of burning oil 
on the taboret nearby. “Bombarded? Major, did you 
hear? We are going to be bombarded, perhaps. Have 
you ever been bombarded before? Who doesn’t love 
a new sensation, just as one must try caviare, or monkey 
glands, or love.” She cast a malicious, laughing glance 
at the Major, portly and unromantic in a bamboo chair 
near the open balcony, as he moved uncomfortably under 
her directness. 

“It’s no laughing matter.” Mrs. Denton had been im¬ 
pressed by her husband’s seriousness. “And if the 
servants take sides, we’ll be deserted. I think I would 
better go at once and order an extra supply of food that 
will keep. Chocolate is always a wise selection, and we 
could subsist on that if everything else failed.” 

“And cigarettes—and matches,” Cousin Em called 
after her, as she hurried out, dropping the contents of 
her work basket behind her in her haste. 

The Major arose, and stood politely at attention; it 
was due her rank, and seeing so many little brown 
servants fall respectfully before her every day made him 
feel very remiss in social observances; but with his in¬ 
creasing portliness, it was irksome. He felt conscious 
of Cousin Em’s cool, analytical eyes, and he blushed 
disagreeably. 

“Sit down, do.” She motioned him to a chair and 
he meekly took it. Somehow he lost all of his fiery 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


121 


nature when in her presence, and almost involuntarily 
depended on her suggestions. 

“You don’t smoke, Major ?” she asked sweetly, blow¬ 
ing tiny blue rings through the air in his face without 
deeming it necessary to apologize. 

“Smoke, no thank you,” he sputtered, swallowing 
most of it, without relish. “I must draw the line at 
women’s habits, you know.” 

She laughed merrily. 

“It is so good for the nerves,” she replied tranquilly, 
“for the nerves, Major. I do believe you are a little 
hit nervous—now, aren’t you.” 

“I admit it. Many things make me nervous. One, 
especially.” 

“And that is-?” 

“You,” he said rudely, and walked out, relishing her 
look of discomfiture. 

But proximity has much to do with friendship, and 
in the limited circle that formed the diplomatic throng, 
they were thrown in daily contact, so that trivial dif¬ 
ferences counted for very little. 

The clouds on the political horizon, however, could 
not prevent Mrs. Denton from some of her shopping 
expeditions; for she thoroughly enjoyed this feminine 
pursuit. And she had grown quite accustomed to sit¬ 
ting on the floor mats while bargaining, as the boys, 
polite, neat in their blue jackets, brought out expensive 
fabrics for her selection, all artistically wrapped in 
pretty yellow cloth. One must always bargain, for the 
shopkeeper expected it and his goods were marked up 
especially to meet such a contingency. 



122 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


She knew always when to say “Takai and Takusan”; 
and that would be the propitious moment for the barter 
to begin. It was not always necessary to buy, for by 
earning the reputation of being difficult to please, Mrs. 
Denton had succeeded in influencing the shop keepers 
in bringing their choicest products to interest her. 

For that reason neither Grace nor Cousin Em liked 
to shop with her, for it was resolved into a very dull 
process of sordidness. Instead, accompanied by the 
Major, they would ramble through the interesting 
streets, knowing that with her waiting rickshaw she was 
safe enough and would return at the proper time. 

Sometimes they were joined on the way by Deering, 
after his duties in his offices were over, and he would 
find time immeasurably heavy on his hands in the 
strange country; for one cannot stifle homesickness with 
scenery, and although he had heroically reasoned his 
attitude towards Grace into an impersonal one, de¬ 
tached, not intimate, yet the utter dispassionate friendli¬ 
ness of the two women meant much to him in those first 
despondent days when he wished that he had ruled 
against sentiment and had never come. And there was 
nearly the full year of it still to endure. 

Interest guided them past the dark workshops, open 
on one side to the street; within, the rice-pounders, 
scantily attired, tossing yellow clouds of dried husks 
up and down with their paddles; unsmiling, silent, in¬ 
scrutable. Not less industrious were the old umbrella 
makers, the fires of youth spent, crouching on the floor, 
their thin, quick fingers twisting the reed and rattan 
into symmetrical beauty; basket makers, with stacks of 
brilliant red and blue flowers heaped around them, as 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


123 


finishing decoration of their wares; and the clay-image 
moulders, out in the sunshine, incessantly at work— 
silent, unsmiling, inscrutable. 

“They are busy little fellows,” the Major praised 
them. “Like little machines, and not a bit more talka¬ 
tive.” 

His eye was arrested by an object before them, a step 
down the road; a small brown housewife was vigorously 
chopping an odorous huge radish for her lord’s meal, 
her little arms rising and falling with marvelous force 
as she wielded the blade. 

“Lord, how they work,” he continued, half-pityingly. 

“Yes, and for so little,” Cousin Em replied in her 
practical way. “She is only preparing her husband’s 
dinner. Always for the men. The women are the in¬ 
dustrious ones of the nation. They are slaves, poor little 
things. Yo matter in what walk of life, in business, 
in work and in love. The woman has no alternative.” 

“That is what I most admire in them, their willing¬ 
ness and desire to wait on the male,” the Major argued. 
“To one who is familiar only with the inverse rule— 
H rule carried to the ridiculous, leading them on a 
figurative string—why, it’s positively exhilarating.” 

“I have always noticed in life that the ones who are 
so easily led, on a string, as you call it, are invariably 
the ones who want to be led, Major,” Cousin Em re¬ 
torted, cheerfully. 

He did not reply. 

“The position of the women here is actual slavery,” 
she went on, with increased eloquence, knowing that 
she had routed him. “She cannot select her mate; once 
married she must take dictation first from her husband, 


124 


MISS CIIERBY BLOSSOM 


next her father-in-law, her mother-in-law, then her own 
son, and so on. She can he divorced for any of seven 
reasons, including disobedience to her mother-in-law, 
gossiping, quarreling, or anything else her lord and 
master wishes to accuse her of. If he wants to free him¬ 
self of her, the reason is ready in advance. And, poor 
little thing, if she happens by accident to be in posses¬ 
sion of her husband’s love, at any time, for family rea¬ 
sons, the wishes of his august parents, he can take 
another wife, without going through the formality of the 
ceremony, and put her in the same house. Poor little 
brown sparrows. I pity them. If the women of Japan 
could throw off this unjust oppression, and win emanci¬ 
pation, they would put their male geniuses to shame. 
Give them a chance. They are the ones who have in¬ 
stilled filial devotion in the children, have made them 
capable of greatness. If Japan has famous men today, 
take off your hats to the women of Japan for making 
them so.” 

She stopped, breathless over such a long eulogy, her 
eyes sparkling with her enthusiasm. 

“Hear! Hear!” cried Deering, shaking his head ap¬ 
provingly. He might add other arraignments to hers, 
conditions such as little Flower Garden was forced into 
—and even worse. His face grew serious as he thought 
of her. Every morning, on awakening, he heard the 
faint, unmusical, dismal sound of the samisen, and the 
undeveloped, quavering voice as Flower Garden sang 
softly to herself in the little enclosure at the rear that 
almost connected with that of his own cottage. Some¬ 
times, drawn irresistibly to the shoji, he looked in 
curiosity at the dainty little form, chirping like some 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


125 


timid wood bird all alone, her black hair looped twice 
on her little head, showing her to be unmarried, her gay 
red obi on the blue kimono. 

He brought his errant thoughts back with an effort. 
Cousin Em was talking to him; he did not wish to enter 
their lively skirmish, but he listened, knowing some 
reply was expected of him. 

“Which for yours, Jack ? The slave man or the slave 
wife ?” 

Her directness was disconcerting. He had schooled 
his feeling for Grace so that there was no responsiveness 
within him at sight of her—when formerly it set in 
vibration a thousand and one tiny joys, like some won¬ 
derful elixir. His will and his pride had fortified him. 
Yet, he unconsciously sent a little glance in her direc¬ 
tion before he answered. He could not tell whether she 
heard the inquiry or not; and he felt intuitively that 
she would have no interest whatever in his reply. In 
fact, she was going over, in abstraction, a list of articles 
she had written down, and her forehead was drawn to¬ 
gether in two little lines of perplexity as she hesitated 
over a possible choice of linen or imported crash for 
some new guest towels. 

“I have always put woman on a pedestal,” he said, 
blushing absurdly, feeling awkward over his admission; 
it was old-fashioned, ridiculous, and thoroughly behind 
the times. “And I couldn’t imagine her stepping off, 
even for love, to be my slave.” 

The Major halted their advance, wiping his moist 
face, his rotund cheeks flaming under the heat. It was 
warm, with a peculiar dampness that sent streams of 
moisture down one’s spine at the least exertion. At least 


126 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


he found it so. “But you can’t practise western stan¬ 
dards in these Oriental countries,” he said testily. “Our 
staid, sober ideas of life don’t belong here; these little 
teapot people would be topsy-turvy if we tried to force 
them on them. Climate and custom make them what 
they are; for, after all, as some one said before, morals 
are merely a matter of geography.” 

“Well, there’s such a thing as the hired wife—an¬ 
other form of the slavery that exists here,” Cousin Em 
said. She was carrying a green sunshade, to provide 
protection for the eyes in the bright sunlight, and she 
twirled the handle over her shoulder, waiting for the 
ignition that she knew would follow. 

But the Major had had sufficient frays for the warm 
day, and moved on in determination. “Have they as¬ 
sailed you, Jack?” She threw the question over her 
shoulder to him. 

He caught up with her. 

“Assailed, yes.” It was forced on him that Grace 
was within earshot; her face was turned away, but the 
red showed on the line of her cheeks. She was visibly 
annoyed. “But, as I have just said, I have put woman 
on a pedestal; it will not be my fault if she is ever 
knocked off.” 

Grace faced them, her eyes blazing indignation. 

“I think this conversation is worse than absurd,” she 
cried, including both of them like culprits in her con¬ 
demnation. “I’m ashamed of you, Cousin Em. Come, 
Major,” she hurried forward and grabbed his arm with 
purpose. “Will you show me that dear little pagoda 
tea house across the street ? This must be very tiresome 
for you, too.” She slipped her arm through his, piloting 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


127 


him with determination between the swiftly-running 
coolies, fish hawkers, and clouds of steam, hot, disagree¬ 
able, from the vendors of boiling food. The Major 
looked back, resigned, unhappy at being deprived of 
their companionship. 

Cousin Em tucked her hand into Deering’s, laugh¬ 
ing heartily. 

“My dear Jack,” she said with maternal tenderness, 
patting his arm sympathetically. “I almost wish you 
had taken a hired wife. You are going through the 
process just now of a desperate remedy—to cure you 
of a desperate disease. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. 
I’ve had a heartache or two myself, and I know the 
signs. You’ll be all the better for it. Eor, you know, 
one doesn’t require medicine unless he needs to be 
cured. Eemember that. You must be cured.” She 
met his eyes expressively. 

He laughed, carelessly, almost happily. He was rap¬ 
idly discovering that he was emerging safely from his 
undeserved purification, which, if not by fire, had caused 
him anguish enough. 

“You’ll have a reward, yet.” She nodded her head, 
the brilliant green plume on her hat shaking agitatedly 
with the movement. “Some day you’ll find the right 
girl.” She regarded him approvingly. He was clean 
cut, well groomed, the type that women like. Erect, 
with fine physical proportions, his handsome face showed 
refinement and nobility of character. The smile which 
flashed often over his countenance carried something 
boyish and irresistible with it, which made quick friends 
for him. She sighed, meditatively. Romance seemed 


128 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


so far away from her; its voice had never really called 
her; she had never felt its charm, its glamor. She felt 
a thoroughly feminine sort of envy for the woman he 
would finally love. 


CHAPTEE IX 


On one of the by-streets of the Ginza, there is a god, 
the Jizo—a god of little children. Many times during 
the month can one place offerings before the image^ 
whose benign protection is supposed to be directed over 
the young of both sexes; and, too, if one wants offspring, 
success will be assured by making the proper gifts. For 
the gods must be appeased. 

Flower Garden often stole away in the night during 
Edwards’ absence, profound in her belief in the Jizo. 
Had not the aged couple far past the road of the Green 
Jade Horse, prayed and given honorable rice repeatedly 
to the Jizo, and one morning found a chubby little girl 
on the door step ? 

And the old flower seller, half blind, lame—a tiny 
son lay right in his own bamboo cottage one evening 
when he came home to prepare his lonely meal. It was 
the great Jizo. Soon it would be the Seventh of the 
month, one of the first days of the ennichi, or festival. 
She, too, would prepare some honorable rice cakes, even 
some wonderful birds of barley gluten, for the Jizo 
sometimes was voracious and gave special favors when 
properly appeased. And, if the Jizo smiled on her, 
surely it would please her honorable lord. Then he 
could not think of ever going away—of leaving her. 
For ever since his honorable Mr. Foreigner friend had 


129 


130 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


come, he had been different. He had not loved her any 
more. But he had been kind, and he paid her a lot 
of money, 1 yen punctually every month; hut he had 
changed. Tears stole into her sad little eyes as she 
thought of him. She had heard them talk, often, far 
into the night, when they thought she was asleep, of the 
time they would go hack to the far-off country, next 
year. The year was going, swiftly, rapidly; the days 
were passing, just as the golden leaves fell from the 
trees. Soon came the lily season, days of beauty, of 
rich fragrance, when the great golden hearted flowers 
opened their petals to the sun, sending out ravishing 
sweetness—the purplish mottled Auratum, heavily odor¬ 
ous ; the virginal madonna lilies; the blue lilies, faintly 
perfumed, and the scarlet pungent lilies. Flower 
Garden was very unhappy. A soft, vaporous cloud of 
incense drifted out of a temple at the angle of the street. 
She glided in, on her pigeon feet, gave a coin in the 
offering box to the gods; and, as is the custom, clapped 
her hands softly as she murmured in pious voice the 
imploring FTamu Amida Butsu. Hear me, Great Lord 
Buddha. Surely, with the rice cakes, this would he 
sufficient to gratify her prayers, and it was with more 
elation of spirits that she toiled up the hill to the bamboo 
cottage again and made her simple preparations for her 
master’s return. 

She got her samisen and gently sang “Come Let Hs 
Dance the Dance of the Honorable Garden” out at the 
back, for it would not have been proper for her to sit 
on the tiny porch in front. 

The dim glare of a lantern, warmly crimson, showed 
through the shoji in the Honorable Foreigner’s cottage, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


131 


and the sound of voices, masculine, foreign in their 
rapid manner of speaking, sounded distinctly in the 
stillness of the night. She recognized one as belonging 
to her own lord; and knew that the other speaker was 
the newcomer, who had arrived from the great land far 
across the sea. 

She put down her instrument very noiselessly, listen¬ 
ing. They must not know she was there, for it was 
very wicked to try to hear what other people said when 
they were alone, for confidences were sacred, and the 
gods punished. 

They were smoking, talking intimately over their 
cigars, as men do. 

“There’s no harm done, I assure you, Jack,” Edwards 
was talking, with seriousness. “Flower Garden makes 
me very comfortable. I have nothing to complain of. 
More I cannot ask.” 

“What if she should love you ?” 

Edwards laughed heartily at the absurdity of the 
suggestion. 

“These little women don’t know the meaning of the 
word. They know only contentment, and that is prob¬ 
ably due to their freedom from small worries. They 
don’t expect fidelity from their men, nor do they ever 
get it. The Japanese woman is self-effacing, never liv¬ 
ing her own life, but serving her master or lord. It is 
not necessary as a rule to perfect her in the arts, for 
her husband’s geisha has been trained to entertain and 
amuse. The wife is not expected to. Their fashions 
never change, their household cares are small, there is 
none of the hard work westerners perform, owing to 
their simple mode of living. Flower Garden has very 


132 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


little to do, for I am away all day. I never ask her 
what she does, anyway. Our lives do not meet, but 
cross, each going his own way, according to the custom. 
Come, have I exculpated myself? You have never ap¬ 
peared to approve.” 

“I don’t, not in any sense,” Deering replied promptly. 
“But I’m too deeply fond of you, Edwards, to let it 
come between our friendship. Eirst of all, there’s Anne 
Manners, back home.” 

Edwards’ face turned a shade paler, as he looked 
around at his friend, disturbed at the unexpected 
subject. 

He laughed, forcedly, trying to regain his composure. 

“I used to think she cared—for me.” He blew the 
ashes from the tip of his cigar. “But East is West, 
three years away, and while one may not forget, one 
tries not to remember.” 

“Do you think she would like it ?” Deering pursued 
the topic with persistence. He had put his cigar down, 
deeply interested in the conversation. 

“Ho woman would,” Edwards admitted, after a pause. 
“But there are lots of things women don’t know, even 
in our own country. And being engaged to Anne Man¬ 
ners did not always imply that one was a celibate.” 

“My God, man, you make me angry.” Deering 
jumped to his feet, pacing the floor, trying to master his 
irritation. “It’s hopeless, I see, trying to persuade you 
to my opinion. Here are two men, both of standing, 
equally endowed, and yet each adopting a different 
standard—and I must do you the justice to admit that 
our customs support your theory just as much as they 
support mine. But I think what you do is wrong; and 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


133 


it is not only wrong to Flower Garden, but it is just as 
wrong to Anne Manners, whom you are engaged to, and 
to yourself. That’s my candid opinion, and you wanted 
it.” 

Edwards lightly shrugged his shoulders; he had an 
inward reluctance to changing his habits, although 
twinges of conscience had asserted themselves more than 
once, and excuses implied guilt always. 

“It won’t be long before we’ll both be going back, 
Jack,” he said, gravely. ‘^Perhaps I’ll have the courage 
then to tell Anne—if she still cares. I know I do, for 
her; but what right has a man situated as I am, far off 
in a strange land, absent for three years, to expect the 
constancy of a woman at all ? If I should tell you what 
the first year of my existence here was, you would pity 
me; I actually suffered, was terrorized at my loneliness. 
That caused the whole trouble.” 

“I can well believe it, Edwards. I’m going through 
it now,” Deering said sympathetically. He did not lose 
the sudden, sharp look his friend gave him, understand¬ 
ing much. “It’s—it’s—hell.” 

He leaned his head against his arm, weakly giving 
in to his feelings, afraid that he was going to act like 
some great overgrown schoolboy, not man enough to 
refrain from tears. He cleared his throat in deter¬ 
mination. 

“Cha?” He looked expectantly at Edwards, his 
hands raised to summon Fuji. Outdoors, near the closed 
shoji, joining the tiny enclosure in the rear, something 
had fallen, with a loud noise. They rushed out, agilely 
leaping over the frail bamboo obstruction between. 
There was nothing there; but on the hard, sandy ground 


134 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


was a small object; and Deering stooped and picked it 
up; it was a samisen, and one of the strings bad broken 
in the fall. 


CHAPTER X 


Cherry Blossom had met with much difficulty in per¬ 
suading the aged shop keeper, Osaka, to give her em¬ 
ployment in helping him sell the Hishigawa pictures; 
for the shop was so small that the presence of even one 
more person cramped it uncomfortably, and one more 
mouth to feed meant that much less money. But her 
distress finally found a tender spot in his withered heart, 
and perhaps he should congratulate himself on the good 
luck he was having in engaging her; for at the begin¬ 
ning of the do-yo his painters were beginning to bring 
in the new assortment of pictures, freshly painted after 
the style of the famous artist, yet moist from the brush. 
And what mattered the name ? Hishigawas they were, 
even if his workmen made them fresh every week.. And 
people must live. 

And what perhaps had the most power to induce him 
to accept her services was the fact, the knowledge, that 
she knew his secret, the flagrant deception practised on 
his patrons. There was undoubtedly a great Hishigawa, 
and dead indeed for some two hundred years; hut what 
triumph of his brush remained was priceless, and even 
the Imperial family possessed but few. 

So Osaka displayed the new Hishigawas high up on 
the platform, their colors softened by the light of the 
lantern, and carefully shrouded with veils, to enhance 


135 


136 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


their beauty—and incidentally prevent detection. These 
pictures were for sale, but merit alone did not always 
sell a picture, even when assisted by a famous name; so 
he kept one painting for posing Cherry Blossom, the 
canvas cut away merely enough to allow her head to 
be shoved in and poised. It was the head that sold a 
picture, anyway; for the drapery mattered little. And 
when any one bought, judging the merits from the living 
face, he promptly dispatched one of the freshly painted 
arrivals, and Cherry Blossom continued posing, to make 
another sale. 

It was a simple Oriental process that worked smoothly 
enough. For tourists were plentiful, and it was much 
cheaper than teakwood and cloisonne. And with trains 
leaving punctually, one could always exactly compute 
the time for delivery, so that before the package was 
unwrapped the boat was out on the high seas, leaving the 
nearest port. 

Cherry Blossom, however, was an innocent partici¬ 
pant in Osaka’s scheme. To her, it offered a safe place 
of concealment from the three dangers threatening her: 
to be sent unwilling to America, to be put in the Yoshi- 
wara, and the overtures of her false lover. 

Her life was limited to nocturnal privileges to breathe 
the air; then to steal stealthily back, and up to the 
platform, where she slept. Never in the daytime did she 
go out, for fear of being discovered. And she knew 
the cruel vigilance of Hawaka, and could surmise what 
his vengeance would be if he found her; it was that 
realization that made her anxious for Yuri, but she 
dared not make any attempt to see her. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


137 


Behind a curtain draped over the picture, she sat on 
a small stool, nibbling at rice cakes, always in readiness 
to thrust her head with its artificial cherry blossoms 
through the hole in the canvas, in perfect harmony with 
the painted flowers in the Hishigawa lady’s hands. She 
knew when to do it; a cough, rasping, penetrating, from 
Osaka, and she was prepared. Then he would climb up 
the crooked steps, whisper a few more cautions to her, 
and with an important manner slowly pull the curtains 
aside, revealing the living picture. 

Trade was sometimes dull between trains. After that 
it was when the red and green lanterns began to shine 
out on the street that Osaka warned her most, for that 
was the great shopping hour, in the night, and suited 
him better also, in the favorable display it made for his 
pictures. 

One evening his cough of caution came unexpectedly, 
as she was preparing to rest from her rigid posture. She 
hastily got in readiness for him to exhibit. But her ear, 
quick to distinguish the quality of a voice, recognized at 
once the tones of the Honorable Foreigner who had the 
exciting encounter with Shiko for the Hishigawa. He 
was speaking as if in annoyance, and she heard the 
words, though not always understanding. 

“Osaka,” Deering was saying, “you didn’t send me the 
right picture. It is not the one I purchased here that 
night. If there has been a mistake, all right; hut other¬ 
wise, you give hack my money. It is not the same.” 

Osaka remained immovable, his brain traveling 
swiftly. He could not afford to lose the sale; in fact, 
the money was already spent. 


138 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“Honorable Foreigner got pictnre at cheap price,” be 
rubbed bis bands together in bis inimitable manner. 

“Cheap, or not, it’s not the same. Here, old man, 
I’ll give yon a chance to make it good. Where’s the 
one I saw that night ? Come, I gave yon a good price 
for it. There’s no need for ns to call in any one else 
to settle it, is there ?” 

Osaka trembled in fear; it was not the wrath of the 
gods he was afraid of as mnch as that of the police. And 
his shop would be taken from him. It must be such mis¬ 
fortune was overtaking him because he had forgotten 
to say nine lantern prayers, instead of five. Tomorrow, 
in the Asakusa Temple- 

“Where is it?” Deering was peremptorily asking, 
moving about, looking around the walls. Osaka remained 
immovable, watching him narrowly. 

“I have Hishigawa all right, Honorable Foreigner,” 
he breathed softly. “It look the same, it is always the 
same face the great master painted; but it cost more, 
much more than the picture the Honorable Foreigner 
bought. Come, you shall see.” He coughed loudly, and 
there was an undetected movement of the curtains above 
the platform. Osaka climbed the stairs, and slowly 
pulled the thick folds aside. “You see?” he said, nod¬ 
ding his half-shaven head. “Always the same beautiful 
woman, he painted. Always the sakura, the cherry 
blossom; but it cost more.” 

Deering remained before it, his handsome head ele¬ 
vated, his eyes glowing with admiration; the old fellow 
deserved praise for his selection of such masterpieces, 
such human likeness in the flesh colorings. There was 
no comparison between the lost art of 200 years ago 



MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


139 


and that of today. The girl’s face looked real, breathing, 
living. He turned away, aflame over it, his heart throb- 
bing, his throat dry. It made no difference what it 
cost, he must have it; so had he felt about the other 
picture, hut on unwrapping it the next day he had ex¬ 
perienced a peculiar chill of disappointment; for it 
seemed to have lost the inexplicable, mysterious charm 
he had felt for it when he had the exciting opposition 
from Shiko. 

“I’ll take it,” he said, abruptly, taking out his wallet. 
“And this time, Osaka, send me the right one. You 
hear ? If you don’t, I’ll have to take some steps about 
it. You understand ? My Satsuma hoy, Fuji, will come 
for it.” 

Osaka took his money, his face sad. He watched his 
customer out, then he threw the coin on the ground and 
spat on it, stamping his feet in insult on it, over and 
over. 

“It was worth at least 200 yen more,” he cried brok¬ 
enly, weeping in anger, his sphinx-like mien for once 
torn with long-repressed emotion. “Osaka is ruined.” 
He wept on the edge of his wide blue sleeve, wept, though 
it seemed to be a strange, tearless grief, for his tiny, 
sullen eyes were as dry as ever when he turned around. 
“If I send the new Hishigawas my painters bring me, 
Honorable Foreigner, black dog that he is, will send it 
back and have the police after me. He has bought you, 
in the picture. He has ruined me.” He shook with 
anger, like a reed tossed in a gusty wind, furious over 
his plight. 


140 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Cherry Blossom’s tender heart was moved at sight 
of his grief. She touched his arm very politely in 
sympathy. 

“Don’t cry, Osaka; don’t cry. If Honorable For¬ 
eigner has bought me, I’ll go. We will not let Osaka 
be ruined this way. We will not let the hateful police 
come. First, though, must you tell Honorable For¬ 
eigner’s hoy when he comes for the picture the truth. 
He is a Satsuma; he never tell. He can take me tonight, 
and fix the wall so that I can he in the picture as here. 
And he must promise that Honorable Foreigner never 
pull the curtain aside except at night, under a green 
lantern, or the picture would he ruined, as the painting 
is very, very old. You remember that, Osaka—or I tell 
on you, too.” 

Deering had expected to be late in returning to his 
cottage that night, for there had been an excursion by 
moonlight, to witness one of the customs of the country, 
to listen to singing insects, the mushi-kiki, out on the 
grassy plains edging the town, and he had remained at 
the Embassy for a light refreshment, clinging to a bit 
of sentiment for home, as late as he felt it excusable. 

Fuji was ever so patiently waiting for him, for it 
was his duty to close the tiny cottage for the night, 
making them secure against the dreaded invasions of 
prowling dogs—often marauders, in an effort to rotj. 
He knocked his cropped head thrice against the floor 
in deference. 

Honorable Foreigner’s picture had come. He had 
hung it exactly as Osaka had taught him, high up; but 
five steps across the room one could see it. Honorable 
Foreigner passessed a great treasure, 200 years old. If 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


141 


the honorable sunlight fell on it, too had; it would all 
he gone, dry up like dust. Such was the way of a very 
old canvas. Yet they cost much. Perhaps Honorable 
Foreigner would see his picture now? Often, it made 
good dreams. 

Deering assented, somewhat mechanically. He was 
tired, and the unusual noises of the mushi-kiki, grass¬ 
hoppers, cicadas, locusts—everything possible that a 
provident nature had endowed with disturbing power, 
for self-protection, had made his head ache; for he had 
all of the westerner’s aversion to insects, singing or 
biting. 

“Yes, yes,” he repeated, longing for his narrow Ameri¬ 
can bed in the next room, made isolated by four hinged 
screens. 

Fuji jerked a thick blue curtain aside, and folded 
his arms at attention, his ear alert for approbation. 

Deering took five steps as directed across the floor; 
it brought him against the wall of his toy house; then 
he turned around. 

He had the real Hishigawa at last! It was beautiful. 
The hair was not black as that of the Japanese women; 
the cheeks were pink and white. The eyes were mod¬ 
estly cast down, and cherry blossoms hung over each 
little ear. He owned it; it was his! It was the hap¬ 
piest moment of his life. It aroused him strangely. He 
ordered Fuji to bring him a chair. Then he looked at 
the beautiful face, almost unable to look away, wishing 
that it were possible that she would raise her eyes, 
amazed at the spell the ancient picture cast over him. 


142 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“You may go, Fuji,” lie said, recalled to his presence. 

Fuji remained where he was, in stubbornness. 

Deering looked at him peremptorily, annoyed at his 
disobedience. 

“Did you hear me ?” he asked, in a tone of authority. 

“Honorable Foreigner forgets that too much light will 
ruin his picture,” Fuji said softly, undisturbed at the 
sign of anger. “Fuji wait to put the curtain in place. 
There is always another night to see it.” 

Deering laughed, goodhumoredly. He gave a parting 
look at the picture, happy over his new possession. He 
experienced a curious sense of having defrauded the old 
dealer; he was quite right in what he said. It was 
cheap at any price. Tomorrow he would stop and give 
him more money. 

He could not sleep. The picture, with its wistful 
beauty, haunted him. Yet he had promised not to look 
at it, for fear of ruining it. And he tossed on his nar¬ 
row bed, berating himself for his seeming lunacy, and 
attributing it to the noisy mushi-kiki. 

Morning brought him still further experiences; in the 
midst of his honorable breakfast, a procession of quaint, 
dwarfed little creatures appeared, one after the other, 
encircling his honorable table and chair in gentle de¬ 
termination. The older one, plainly the mother from 
her method of procedure, led the miniature parade. It 
was Edwards’ honorable mother-in-law, and she had 
come prepared to tempt him with some of her saleable 
daughters. It was purely a business transaction. 0- 
Satu, Miss Sugar, was shoved back and forth before 
him, strutting like the diminutive peacock she was, with 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


143 


her freshly-oiled hair and glittering gilt ornaments. And 
she possessed several wicked false faces, such as the 
Maiko, or professional dancers, used for entertainment 

even a geisha could not offer more, siren though she 
was. Then there were O-Mika, New Moon; O-Nat 
Su, Miss Summer; O-Hiku, Miss Chrysanthemum * 
Miss Delight, Miss Salt. 

Saucy, sprightly young things who should have been 
m school, with pretty oblique eyes, painted red lips; 
but Deering went on eating his honorable rice, undis¬ 
turbed by such standards of loveliness, attracted, per¬ 
haps, by the names, Butterfly, White Bird, Climbing 
Bose—poor little souls, little butterflies, crushing their 
tiny wings, bruised, to be hired out in this repulsive 
slavery. 

Madame mother was in despair. She needed three 
yen very badly, and surely one yen was cheap for a 
hired wife that could dance and had a few false faces. 
Honorable foreigners were too hard to please—and very 
rude. She angrily marshaled her brood out, snapping 
out on the threshold the only English she knew, and 
the first words most of them acquire, “Darn’ Honorable 
Foreigner !” 

He hurried to his offices later than usual. Work had 
never before been so irksome to him, and when he found 
that he was making a succession of irretrievable blun¬ 
ders, he gave up in despair. He was bewitched. That 
was it. The interminable do-yo, the hot, sultry days, 
had affected him. The season had long since passed, 
but there could be no other reason. He had a longing 
to be back in his cottage. Was it possible that such a 


144 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


beautiful maiden, with such haunting charm, ever ex¬ 
isted, even 200 years ago ? A beauty so potent that it 
subordinated such trivialities as the two centuries that 
had elapsed—a beauty that could, after all that time, 
so strangely affect him. 

Hight brought relief; the heat had subsided; the 
whirring insects that simultaneously appear with the 
lighting of the lanterns were hushed, for a storm had 
passed out of the west, and been blown farther beyond, 
but it sufficed to cool the air, and added an intermittent 
breeze. 

Deering refused to have any lights; there was some 
moonlight, desultory, often obscured; but it suited his 
mood. He bade Fuji pull the curtain aside from his 
picture. The glow was sufficient for him to see the beau¬ 
tiful face; he had an unnatural growing sentiment for 
it, and to sit with it in the tender gloom gave it a queer 
but delightful sense of intimacy. Surely, charm is in¬ 
destructible, if it passes the two-century mark. 

Fuji obeyed; he felt that he had impressed his Hon¬ 
orable Foreigner very seriously of the cautions he must 
observe. And the intense admiration he displayed for 
it proved that he would be very careful. 

This was the beginning. Every night, in the sub¬ 
dued light, Deering sat in silent worship before the 
Hishigawa, calling himself a fanatic, bewildered at his 
inability to dispel the illusion. He studied every soft 
girlish curve of the beautiful face, the proud, tender 
little mouth, the exquisite droop of the downcast lids. 
This was veritable witchcraft, under which he was 
powerless. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


145 


He had no desire to resume his calls at the Embassy. 
Cousin Em’s hastily scribbled invitations to join them 
went unanswered. He evaded Edwards, glibly fabri¬ 
cating excuses to keep him away. 

One night, driven out of himself by his inexplicable 
devouring passion for it, he went out, and although the 
flowers were out of season and therefore very difficult 
to obtain, he found a place where they were sold; and 
returning with his arms full of cherry blossoms, forced 
unnaturally in hot houses, he placed them reverently 
before his shrine. He loved his beautiful Hishigawa 
lady. 

Then a strange thing happened. As he occupied his 
customary place across the room from it one night, a 
thunder storm broke out sharply, as tropical storms do, 
a fury of blue lightning and the hoarse reverberations 
from the sky. There was one terrible crash overhead, 
and the toy structure swayed as if a mighty hand had 
rudely shaken it. It seemed to him in that one brief, 
lurid flare of lightning, the head of the beautiful woman 
turned, rigidly, slightly in the canvas; and for one 
intolerable, delirious, sweet, cruel moment her great 
eyes raised and stared across the room into his. 

He was going mad. He had dreamed it. The picture 
had bewitched him. He laughed cynically at his own 
deception. Yet, the foolish, reiterated words of the 
aged dealer would recur to him, persistently, as he 
chanted in his sing-song voice the legend of the Hishi¬ 
gawa lady stepping out of her frame and coming to 
life. And the chaffinch had done it, too, leaving a hole 
in the canvas where it stepped out. 


146 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


He fell on His knees prostrate before it, hardly aware 
of his own actions, all of his being seething with a 
mighty surging love for it. 

“My love, my beautiful love/’ he cried, incoherently. 

Little Cherry Blossom, very uncomfortable in her 
position, her head aching from the continued strain of 
holding it in one place, at first did not understand the 
strange words he uttered, and his flushed, unhappy face. 
And when his voice trembled she was frightened. But 
gradually, as heat dissolves ice, his vehemence set into 
activity an emotion corresponding to his own, until 
when he cried out so earnestly, looking at her, it was 
all she could do to keep from jumping down into his out¬ 
stretched arms and throwing her arms about his neck. 
For under the constant fervor of his devotion she was 
beginning to love him, too, and the more she realized it, 
the greater grew her determination to disappear before 
he discovered the deception practised on him. 

When Cousin Em, Grace and others of the little circle 
of friends from home descended on him, to ascertain 
his delinquency in failing to appear, and his ignoring 
their summons, she experienced a bitter jealousy; but 
no one suspected it, as the curtain was drawn over the 
painting. One of them, a young woman in a pretty 
evening dress, called him very familiarly Jack and dear; 
and assured him that they had all missed him very much. 
And this made Cherry Blossom very unhappy, for she 
decided it was some one who must care for him very 
much to call him dear. 

A political crisis was approaching; the Imperial en¬ 
gagement had not yet been annulled, nor had it been as 
yet sanctioned by the two rival clans. Word came down 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


147 


from the hills of the recruits that were being collected, 
to be in readiness for action. The Imperial troops were 
marched every day for practise. It had every aspect 
of becoming a bitter disturbance, brother against brother. 

“Pack up your things, old man,” the Major burst in 
on Peering one evening, puffing laboriously from his 
climb up the hill. Grace and Cousin Em had accom¬ 
panied him and were making themselves very much at 
home with his belongings. “The Ambassador says we 
will be under bombardment positively by dawn. Twice 
has it been averted, by Oriental diplomacy. It’ll be 
hades let loose if they begin, for they’ll shoot to make 
up for all of their quiet of years. You’re not safe here; 
one bullet, and this kite of yours will hitch on to a star. 
Where do you keep your whiskey ?” 

“Yes, Jack.” Grace put her hand familiarly on his 
sleeve; she had not evinced such interest in him since 
his arrival. He looked at her, trying to discover the 
reason. She smiled very cordially back at him, as if to 
confirm some understanding. “Dad says things are 
really serious,” she said, persuasively. “Come. The 
servants are already leaving, taking sides with the Sat- 
sumas and the Chu-Shus. We’re in a pretty fix with the 
cooks gone.” 

Deering laughed at their earnestness. 

“I’m not afraid. I’ll hoist the American flag and 
take a day off.” 

The Major’s large, substantial hand fell heavily on 
his shoulder. He had located some bottles and was 
correspondingly genial. 

“That is just what you wouldn’t dare do,” he said, 
gravely. “Denton says we must not do anything to 


148 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


destroy our neutrality. How do you know but some of 
the clans might rush in here, seeing the flag up, and 
claim protection? It would be a pretty mess. Keep 
quiet and keep cool. Bullets are not very comfortable 
friends, but nothing may harm you. By the way, where 
is that wonderful picture you have ? the Mishy-ha-ha-or 
something like that. These foreign names are hard on 
the vocal cords.” 

Deering colored hotly. It seemed sacrilege to show it 
to any one else. 

“I sent it back,” he said, hastily. “The frame needed 
mending.” 

“I might take one back with me,” the Major re¬ 
marked, testing a second glass from one of the bottles, 
very analytically. “It would be a souvenir worth 
having.” 

“You promised me a mandarin coat,” Cousin Em re¬ 
minded him. 

“And me a teakwood chest,” Grace pouted. 

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” he protested, help¬ 
less against so much femininity. Faint, dull as the far 
distant roll of wheels, a reverberation rang out, making 
the trim rows of IIowo china rattle on their shelves. 

“Thunder ?” asked Grace, rising to go. 

“Ho, a bomb,” the Major replied, laconically. He 
hastily pushed the two women out, looking back at Deer¬ 
ing, who was waving aside their arguments. 

“Don’t be a fool, Deering. If it is bombardment, 
your life isn’t worth a cent perched on this hill, a target 
for every missile. Come, my boy.” 

But Deering shook his head, unconvinced. He drew 
aside the curtain concealing his treasure, and reached 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


149 


his hungry arms out towards it in entreaty and longing, 
after they took their departure. 

“My love, my love. What do I care about life— 
without you ? If I am killed, I will be with you, my 
love.” The futility of his passion mocked him; to be 
in love at all was a torment of body and mind; but to 
be in love with a woman who had been dead 200 years, 
a bit of canvas, was more than absurd. What had be¬ 
witched him ? He had always been sane, level-headed, 
rational on all matters; and here he was ranting like a 
fool before a canvas, the most inanimate object for 
adoration one could imagine. He was bewitched. The 
booming was increasing. The path from the hill was 
a panorama of black moving people, rushing down to 
safety, like a swarm of curious ants, running to and fro. 

Another explosion, loud and crashing, made the frail 
bamboo supports of the cottage tremble. The Satsuma 
boy, Fuji, with a white, scared face, darted into the 
room, and with a frightened apology to Honorable For¬ 
eigner, hurried out. He, too, had joined his clan. 

Warfare began; bombs rang out, here, there, over¬ 
head, beside them. The house swayed. There was a 
terrific concussion, the clatter of falling china, and with 
a crash the Hishigawa fell to the floor. Stunned, dazed, 
Deering stared around. He could have sworn he heard 
the rustle of a garment. He thought he saw the form 
of a girl run out into the darkness, the beautiful, never- 
to-be-forgotten face of the Hishigawa lady. But amid 
the screams of the frightened natives, and the yells of 
the clans as they fought their way through the streets, 
pitting might against might, he calmed himself; for 
he knew that no one would ever believe such a strange 


150 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


experience. Slowly, still in a mental cloud, lie crept 
over tlie floor, and by the aid of a lantern, examined 
th canvas. There was a big hole in it, as neat as if cut 
out, and a rent down the painted garment. The face 
was gone. The Hishigawa had come to life—and he 
fell down, half insensible, beside it. 

Frightened, terrified, as much by the excited cries of 
the people as by the bombs, which burst over the hill 
tops behind, Cherry Blossom ran swiftly down the road, 
past the Green Jade Horse; as far as possible away from 
the Cherryfield Gate, where the shortest way to Yuri s 
cottage led. Hawaka would take that road, and while 
fear had made her anxious over Lily-mother s fate, sep¬ 
arated from her as she had been for several weeks, yet 
her greatest apprehension was because of Hawaka—-be¬ 
cause of his dreadful threat. She was afraid to think 
of the punishment he might mete out to her if he found 
her; but she must reassure herself that Yuri was safe 
and out of danger. 

In her dull green kimono she passed unnoticed in the 
gloom; her clogs sank lightly into the sand, through the 
neglected paths where lovers once strayed, and when 
a lantern shed its effulgence at an unexpected turn, she 
held her huge sleeve over her head, in the manner of 
priests when they mix among the worldly on the streets. 

It was as well to be cautious; Hawaka might even so 
be hiding in the neighborhood, waiting for her return. 
She saw a light in Timi’s cottage, and crouching by the 
clumps of bamboo, slowly crept towards the shoji, which 
was closed as protection against the disorder on the 
streets. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


151 


“Timi,” she breathed softly, her mouth at the shut¬ 
ters. “Timi.” 

There was no reply, so she took some pebbles and hit 
them smartly against the frame. 

There was no sign that her whispered call had been 
heard. But some one was coming around the corner of 
the hut, and Cherry Blossom drew back into the shadows 
as her heart leapt in dull terror at the thought that it 
might be Hawaka. 

A form jumped toward her in the darkness, grabbing 
her hands. At that tangible evidence she gave a deep 
sigh of thankfulness. It was Timi, who could readily 
be mistaken for a man in the garments she wore. 

“It is well you have come back,” said Timi, sagely. 
“I make the great prophecy. We are on the eve of a 
great disaster. All birth must come through pain and 
sorrow. The new woman of Japan is soon to be here. 
There will be a national calamity, old buildings will 
fall to make way for new ones. Old evils will be wiped 
out so that beautiful good things can take their place, 
crowding them out for ever. The new type of women 
will arise from those ruins, men’s equals, men’s true 
helpmates. I tell you, Cherry Blossom, mark Timi’s 
words. There is a big disaster coming. But through 
it we who escape shall benefit by it, and a new, mar¬ 
velous city be built on the ruins. My sweetheart, he 
is a peasant, but what of it? He has as much brain 
as the mighty men who sit in the Diet. His ideas are 
listened to by his fellow-men. He writes for the paper 
my father prints, and such words, to make one think. 
Some day you will hear him, Cherry Blossom. There 
can be title for peasants as well as for peers.” 


152 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Cherry Blossom laughed, unbelieving. It was good 
to hear Timi’s friendly voice,although she could not 
follow her views. 

“Yes, laugh if you like, Cherry Blossom, 1 ” Timi re¬ 
buked her. “Some day you swallow your ridicule of 
Shihura. He is a peasant and we are proud of it. Watch 
him. Already the great Satsuma leaders send for him, 
wanting his ideas to follow. Never before has it hap¬ 
pened. But we who think see what is coming. One 
day the whole world must talk one tongue. That will 
unlock the secrets of centuries. The great disaster will 
show our Japan what friends we have, friends who give 
us help and money when we are in ruins. We have 
alliances over the water. Have they helped us yet? 
Will they help us when the big disaster comes ? Do not 
count on them. There will be new friends, perhaps 
those we have criticised. But they will help. Today, 
the great Empress invited me to show our girls in school 
here how to march. They must wear loose clothing so 
they can move easily. Timi will be head of an army 
yet, you shall see.” 

But her audience had disappeared, seeking Yuri, 
whom she burned with impatience to see. Timi followed 
to protect her until she saw her and Yuri reunited, and 
then stole hack home. 

There was much money, a little hag of many yen, to 
pour into Yuri’s hands, and Cherry Blossom would take 
her in a rickshaw to the Hyakka-yen, the Garden of 100 
Flowers, to see the wonderful rainbow of growing frag¬ 
rance, and hear the uguis, the nightingale, sing. But 
Yuri gave no heed to her merry talk; nor did the money 
interest her. She only knew that her blossom had come 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


153 


back, and that was enough, for she had missed her 
sorely and Osaka had informed her that he did not 
know where she had disappeared; for, fearing Hawaka’s 
search, Cherry Blossom had succeeded in impressing 
him with the necessity of caution, and he could not 
discriminate in giving out information. 

There was little time for rejoicing. They must be 
leaving for good, before Hawaka returned, toward dawn, 
as was his habit, after a night at gaming. They must 
take all the clothes they would need. Chu-Chu was 
already planning to go to the home of her aged sister, 
near the rice fields, for now that her hands were not 
so deft as in younger years, she still had her legs, and 
they were very useful for water ridges. 

In tearful happiness, they busied themselves in haste, 
embracing every few minutes, then separating to other 
duties. 

Then Chu-Chu, forgetting her sullenness at sight of 
the girls radiant face, offered to dress their hair, and 
while she was rubbing Cherry Blossom’s lustrous bronze 
strands, Yuri brought out the box that contained the 
little white bride’s clothes. She looked at Cherry Blos¬ 
som, her small brown face solemn and dejected. There 
was no time for mourning; every minute counted. 

“Sakura,” she said very tenderly. “To-night, you go 
way off from Yuri. You go back to your people. I 
have promised the honorable law men, who came again, 
and I told them truth this time. You have honorable 
father, already here, a nice fat man, they say, a Major 
man. He loves you very much because he loved his 
little white bride. And you her child.” 


154 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“I—go away? Leave my Yuri? No, no,” cried 
Cherry Blossom wildly, jumping to her feet and upset¬ 
ting Chu-Chu’s elaborate basket, full of pins and camel¬ 
lia oils. “Never that, Yuri. You are the only mother 
I know, dear Yuri. I never leave you.” 

Yuri embraced her affectionately, striving for self- 
control. Then she gently pushed her down on the 
cushion so Chu-Chu could resume her labor. 

“It is better so, Sakura,” she said calmly. “And it 
is safer. Hawaka may harm you. With your people, 
there is less danger—perhaps none. Your honorable 
father a big man. See, I have his name here. A Major 
man mean very much.” She drew out from a little 
pocket, pinned within her kimono, a hit of pasteboard, 
but Cherry repulsed it, crying bitterly. She did not 
want to go. She looked around the tiny cottage with 
deep affection. It was the only home .she had ever 
known and she was fond of it. And Yuri. She sobbed 
unrestrainedly, while Chu-Chu gave her frequent ad¬ 
monishment by jerking her hair, for she had yet another 
coiffure to arrange, and her feet ached. 

Yuri’s package dropped to the floor. A knife, small, 
nevertheless dangerous in its narrow blade, fell out 
with the card. She did not notice the latter, hut quickly 
grabbed the knife and replaced it in her bosom. One 
could never tell. Sometimes, in trouble, a friend could 
not do more; and the work was swift—and noiseless. 

“See, I dress you in little white bride’s clothes; so, 
like her, you go hack to your honorable father, Sakura.” 
She held them up, the old-fashioned dress with its nar¬ 
row waist, the full skirt gaily flounced, and the little 
flat hat wreathed, pathetically, with forget-me-nots. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


155 


Yuri pressed them to her lips, murmuring a broken 
prayer to her gods. 

“Poor little white bride,” she said, reverentially. 

Cherry Blossom dried her tears; the coiffure was fin¬ 
ished. Her cheeks were scarlet, her breathing irregular. 
The sight of the clothes, so different from the kimono 
she had been accustomed to, struck a strange chord 
within her. She was a white girl. She was not Japanese. 
She was of the same race as Deering, and at the thought 
of him, his handsome face, his tender daily adoration of 
her, her heart gave a jump, making her dizzy with 
feeling. She loved him—very much. 

Her abrupt change of mind seemed to surprise even 
Yuri, hut she made no comment, and after she had ap¬ 
proved of the lacquer Chu-Chu smeared over her own 
head, enough to keep it in place a week at least, she 
helped the girl into the queer garments, and fastened 
the little hat on top of her looped hair. It was not 
exactly pretty, according to any standards, foreign, or 
fashionable, or even modern; but neither of them was 
aware of it. To them it was classed among many other 
ridiculous customs that the honorable foreigners dis¬ 
played and endeavored to practise in their country, and 
whether it was flounces or card playing it mattered little. 

They were ready. Yuri was to take Cherry Blossom 
to her new home, and remain with her for a while per¬ 
haps—if the honorable Major father would permit it. 

They embraced again, with a parting regret at leaving 
the little home, and even Chu-Chu joined in their weep¬ 
ing this time. 

A noise sounded on the porch in front, beyond the 
closed shoji; there was a shove, a sudden current of 


156 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


night air as the blinds shot up, leaving the way free, 
and Hawaka, his ugly face baleful with anger, his eyes 
evil, stepped in. 

Yuri stifled a scream of terror. She knew the fate 
that threatened Cherry Blossom, and as she saw two 
men, sinister looking and crafty, behind him, she gave 
up hope. Custom and traditions had given her a cer¬ 
tain stoicism, and her face expressed none of the anguish 
she was enduring. Hawaka roughly caught Cherry 
Blossom by the arm, shaking her as a rebuke for having 
hidden herself. How, he could laugh, for tears would 
help very little. He whirled her about, for exhibition. 

“Here she is, Honorable Sirs. Did not Hawaka say 
truth ? She has lots of pretty about her—white, strong 
teeth, nice long arms, and a nice fat cheek. Hawaka 
never lie. I told you I would get her for you, and I 
keep my word.” 

The two grotesque men, in blue flapping coats and 
flat hats, walked slowly around Cherry Blossom, ap¬ 
praising her charms, scanning her skin, fingering the 
silk flounces, and raising the long skirt to inspect her 
little feet. Business must be conducted on a different 
basis when one is not selling wares; and selling a woman 
is just as shrewd an operation as selling a horse, for one 
can be just as badly deceived. 

“Tonight, now, you shall have her,” Hawaka went on 
grandly. “She cost you fifty yen every month. I say 
nothing about what I owe you—she work it out. This 
girl be fine girl for Yoshiwara.” 

Cherry Blossom struck her small fists out at them, 
with an agonized scream, beating against them help¬ 
lessly, weakly, in despair. But Hawaka’s large, powerful 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


157 


hand pinched her throat by way of warning, and he 
laughed with insolence at her anguish. 

“See, she make a pretty noise, too?” he cried, 
brutally. 

Yuri, cowed into immovability, watched the proceed¬ 
ings, making no further outcry; there was no need to 
cry for help, for here in this remote road, there was no 
one to hear. And if so, by chance, the voice rang out, it 
would be confused with the yells of the fighters on the 
streets. 

The agents of the Yoshiwara counted out Hawaka’s 
money with precision, commercially estimating the girl’s 
pretension as they did. Then they took some heavy 
ropes they had brought with them and tied her hands 
behind her back. There was a proverb among them to 
the effect that where women were concerned, the eye 
must rest on the possession; and even if she bore one 
seven sons, not to trust her. For that reason, they made 
the Knots very secure around Cherry Blossom’s delicate 
wrists, lacerating the sensitive flesh. Yuri was a differ¬ 
ent consideration. More than once she tried to appeal 
to Hawaka’s better nature. She was his mother, after 
all, but he looked away, and once, approaching where 
she was crouching by the wall, he insolently hit out 
against her with the toe of his clog. That conveyed a 
much greater affront than any of his epithets, which 
he had not spared her. 

Women of her age counted for nothing where they 
were going to take her; but there was always work to do, 
plenty of it, and she might be useful in menial tasks, 
and assist the men in shoveling sand over the roads. 


158 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


They were each valuable for different reasons, hut 
the ropes that bound them tight together were the same; 
and made into one bundle practically, they were half- 
dragged, kicked into the covered cast that stood outside, 
and drawn with two man power up the Cherryfield 
road, resembling, as they wished it to, the wooden 
vehicles the truck farmers use when they convey the 
harvest to the city. 

Behind, trudged Hawaka, smiling grimly to himself 
as he made plans for the enjoyment of his earnings. 

Now he could dictate to Matsuki. He had beaten 
him at his own game, for it was for the possession of 
Cherry Blossom the hideous old Mongolian had always 
played, and not for money; and there was no prefer¬ 
ence allowed any one in the Yoshiwara. 


CHAPTER XII 


In vain did Fuji place his favorite dishes before his 
master, and concoct unique combinations out of tender 
bamboo shoots and lily bulbs; or pound the early chry¬ 
santhemum buds into delectable relishes, but these sav¬ 
ories returned untouched. The rose-colored ginger, gro¬ 
tesquely shaped—even the highest form of culinary art, 
a live fish, whose fate it was to be eaten alive—all failed 
to tempt. 

The Satsuma was in despair; he pored over his les¬ 
sons, hoping to discover a cause; sometimes one learned 
much in a book. 

He was deeply sorry for his lord. In his blunt under¬ 
standing he could only show his sympathy one way, by 
his customary epistle. It was very polite, and was 
merely another proof of how invaluable his services were 
—so he could ask for a raise. For he had promised a 
priest several sen if he would help him with his prayers 
for the Imperial Ancestor shrine. He copied the words 
from the book very carefully, for one must give par¬ 
ticular attention to beautiful expressions, and although 
he did not know what any of them meant, they were 
quite large, and surely that implied that they repre¬ 
sented important things. 

He added a few suggestions of his own, for effect, 
then read it over to himself in sibilant whispers, before 


159 


160 MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 

tossing it over the screen—a habit he had adopted while 
his master rested. 

Honorable Mr. Foreigner Dearing: 

Dear Sir: We have been successful in procuring a 
load of horses, as per your order of the 2nd inst., and 
they will be shiped next Monday. I trust they will 
reach you in good condition & prove satisfactory. 

Fuji sends his compliments & on the 15 will send 
some honorable offerings at the Matsuri for his head to 
get well. He Fuji would like to be raised very high & 
hopes Honorable Mr. Foreigner Dearing can do it. He 
is very wicked for asking & knows he is a black swine, 
& hoping you are the same, 

Fuji. 


He cleared his throat, undecided whether to read it 
or to throw it. But discretion advised this latter form 
for intrusion, and raising his arm in a circle, he let it 
fall over the top, where he knew the honorable head of 
his master rested on the American bed. 

Deering was awakened from his doze by the contact; 
it did not tend to make his reception of it cordial; he 
read it silently, making no comment. The lad’s erudi¬ 
tion deserved some encouragement, and if he must write 
letters instead of exercising his tongue, he would see to 
it that a very modem manual for that purpose was 
bestowed on him. For he had very little interest at the 
present in equine matters, and it was unfair to rob him 
of the infrequent slumber he got by such considerations. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


161 


He acknowledged himself mentally and bodily ill. It 
was not altogether the continued strain of the heat; he 
could not deceive himself into attributing his inertia to 
climatic exhaustion. The torn canvas of the Hishigawa 
lay where he had placed it against the wall, on that 
memorable occasion when it fell. Linking bit by bit 
fragmentary recollections, he had gradually come to the 
conclusion that perhaps the huge frame had first struck 
him, and therefore his delusion about the beautiful girl 
coming to life had been the result of the accident. Busi¬ 
ness duties were not sufficiently pressing to require his 
presence at his offices, and a few days of indolence 
would not affect matters, especially as people were still 
sojourning in the hills, and a general vacation was being 
indulged in, except by the foreign embassies, that had 
deemed it wise to remain in the Imperial city, in case 
of emergency. 

For while the Chu-Shus and the Satsumas had some¬ 
what stilled their warfare, conducted for the most part 
with fistic encounters and the occasional pyrotechnical 
display of ammunition, trouble had not actually 
begun, and by temporizing, it was evident that weightier 
plans were being formulated. 

Fuji had blandly suggested to him to make the Japan- 
ese doctor return his money for not keeping his head 
well, for is not one’s physician paid only to prevent 
disease, and if one falls ill he loses money by it instead 
of obtaining more? But Deering had not taken ad¬ 
vantage of this custom, and rejected the thought, ad¬ 
vanced by the best of intentions. It was his loss that 
affected him; his ancient painting was destroyed, and 
he had been very fond of it. 


162 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


As Fuji prepared his honorable hath, with the water 
much hotter than usual in mistaken kindness, the way 
his own race liked it, so that the skin was almost par¬ 
boiled in the process, making a torture out of a daily 
pleasure, he examined the picture very solemnly, fa¬ 
miliar with the legends in connection with the great 
Hishigawa Kichibei’s work. It is true, the chaffinch 
had left a much smaller hole, hut is it not a bird ? And 
a woman’s head is many times bigger. There need he 
no further sickness because of that; he knew a man who 
might repair it, good as new, and if he forgot to see 
about it within the very next hour, he hoped the great 
god Buddha would singe his eyebrows. 

It was very still in the little cottage. Deering won¬ 
dered at the air of quiet around Edwards’ cottage, toe, 
a step or so beyond. Ho longer had he heard the un¬ 
musical picking of the samisen, or the thin little treble 
raised in singing: 

Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden, 

Chan, Chan, 

Cha, Cha, Yoitomose, 

Yoitomose, 

Chan, Chan, Chan. 

Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden, 

Who cuts the bamboo at the back of the house, 

My sweet lord’s own bamboo—the first he planted. 

He wondered if any one were ill. He had absented 
himself lately from all friends; first, deeply engrossed 
in his picture, so that he disliked passing any time away 
from his adoration of it more than was necessary. And 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


163 


after his first evasions, Edwards had refrained from 
making attempts to see him. Solitude, indefinably, did 
not comfort him; he experienced a very distinct desire 
for companionship, and decided to see if his friend were 
at home; and taking his pipe, walked over on the soft 
gravel. 

It struck him oppressively that the house was appar¬ 
ently deserted. The shoji was half-open, to admit of 
ventilation, and glancing in, he remarked its painstak¬ 
ing, hare atmosphere. Flower Garden was a conscien¬ 
tious worker. He turned to go, sauntering idly, not 
overly anxious to continue his lonely siesta in his own 
bamboo house. Edwards was coming. Deering stopped, 
dismayed, shocked at sight of his face. Great rings of 
suffering lay under his eyes; his face was colorless, 
drawn. 

“Good heavens, man, what’s the trouble ?” He grasped 
his hand, holding it. 

Edwards motioned him in, and throwing off his hat, 
tossed a cushion on the floor, and in native style sat 
on it. 

“Flower Garden is gone,” he announced briefly. 
“Gone—without a trace, a line. Gone.” 

“What’s happened? She seemed content enough.” 
Deering had dropped his pipe from his mouth in aston¬ 
ishment. That explained why he had heard no singing. 
He looked involuntarily toward the comer; the little 
samisen was still there, as he had noticed it that day, 
with one string broken. Perhaps she had heard them 
as they talked, and he tried to recall what they had been 
discussing. He remembered some allusions he had made 
to Edwards’ old love, but he rejected the idea as being 


164 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


absurd, for even if Flower Garden bad beard tbem, it 
was not at all probable she could understand it. But 
the mute evidence of the broken samisen impressed him 
forcibly. It showed she had not touched the instrument 
since. 

“Then she did love you, after all.” Deering picked 
up his pipe again and filled it anew. 

“She would have stayed if she loved me,” Edwards 
said dully. “And do you know, Jack, I never knew 
before how much I cared for her. I suppose it was 
nothing but companionship back of it, but unconsciously 
she grew into my life, with her quiet, unobtrusive, 
gentle little ways, eager to please, self-sacrificing. If 
I knew where she was, Ed feel better about it. Perhaps 
my conscience hurts a bit, too. I did not treat her right, 
perhaps. Girls here boast they are “heart easy,” kohoro 
yasui meaning they have no other lovers. She was so 
tender-hearted, always going to the Matsuri or festivals 
of the Jizo, and hanging her strings of paper prayers 
on the trees so that some day she would find a little baby 
on the door step. Three times a month, regularly, like 
one possessed, did she attend the festival, with her little 
offerings, to gain the goodwill of the great Jizo. Poor 
little Flower Garden. Deering, I—Pm afraid I’ve 
been a brute to her.” He put his head on his arm, in 
bitter self-reproach. 

“Nonsense, old man; you’ve done everything you 
could. I don’t see that there’s a thing you can reproach 
yourself for. Have you tried to find her ?” 

Edwards looked up, his hair was disheveled, giving 
him an unnatural expression; he had not shaved, and 
his face looked bluish with the finely growing beard. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


165 


“Find her? That’s the whole trouble, Jack I am 
white; she is Japanese. I have no right to keep her, 
the arrangement being what it was. And not one of 
these native officials could help me—and I couldn’t ask 
the assistance of my own people in a case of this kind, 
you see. Poor little child.” 

Deering smoked in gloomy silence, convinced of his 
friend’s opinion. East may he West, hut the line is in¬ 
definably drawn, and exists. 

“I’ve got it,” he cried suddenly, putting his pipe 
away. “It’s the honorable mother-in-law. I’ll wager 
she’s hack of the whole thing. She’s had a chance to 
get more money for her.” Their eyes met, in expressive 
understanding. 

“It doesn’t seem probable,” Edwards said, slowly, 
yet dwelling on the possibilities of the idea. “I gave 
her more than any one else. There’d be only one other 
place.” 

“What is that ?” 

“The Yoshiwara.” 

“Good God!” Deering exclaimed, jumping to his feet. 

“I guess that’s it,” Edwards went on, recalling inci¬ 
dents to support his belief. “There were other sisters 
there, some of those you refused to he tempted by, with 
the pretty names—Butterfly, White Bird, Climbing 
Bose.” 

“It’s a shame; it’s a crime. The law should inter¬ 
fere,” Deering cried, his face blazing with indignation, 
“and the mother should he punished for doing it.” 

Edwards shook his head, making a little gesture of 
submission. 


166 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


“It is the custom here,” he said. “You must remem¬ 
ber that girls lost no caste because of it, and certain 
classes resort to it to keep up the family resources. That 
is the end. I told you that soon it would all be a mem¬ 
ory, but little did I suspect it would happen so soon, 
so unexpectedly.” 

Deering took a step and put his hand affectionately 
on the other’s shoulder. 

“Edwards, I’m sorry it hurts, but I’m glad the thing 
is over—glad for your sake and Anne Manners. You 
can turn these pages over; the new page is clean.” 

Edwards pressed his hand, comprehending his 
sympathy. 

Out on the gravel the sound of clogs made a noise; 
steps came up on the porch; there was a deferential 
beating on the shoji, and even without waiting for a 
reply, Fuji rushed in, out of breath, his eyes bulging 
with grief. 

“Honorable Mr. Foreigners! Honorable Mr. For¬ 
eigners!” he could only stammer, and they waited for 
him to control his agitation. “You see, Fuji went to 
the picture man’s as he promised, so that Buddha would 
not singe his eyebrows; and there on the street, as he 
turned the comer, with her little hands full of the rice 
cakes she wanted to give the great god Jizo, they found 
her, smiling, gone. And her old black-pig mother, what 
did she care except that she did not get the three yen 
she was to have for her at the Yoshiwara. But rather 
would the girl die. Oh, Honorable Foreigners, the great 
Jizo was going to smile on her soon, they said, as they 
carried her away. Perhaps in Nirvana, he smile on her, 
even yet.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


167 


“Who was it, Fuji ? Speak V ’ Deering cried, sternly. 

“It was Flower Garden, Honorable Mr. Foreigner; 
there she was, smiling so peaceful. She would not go 
where honorable mother said. She has gone with the. 
great gods, forever.” 

They sat in the twilight, speechless, and one by one 
the brilliant eyes of the streets below them came out, 
glimmering and radiating, red, blue, green, like beacons 
shining from afar. 

Deering arose, moved to sudden pity. He put his 
arm sympathetically around his friend, as he stooped 
forward, his hand supporting his head, bitter from his 
self-flagellation, crushed with grief. 

“And you said they had no souls,” Deering said, 
gently. “She loved you. That was it.” 

He moved out in the soft grey vapors of the night, 
much disturbed, the mellow tones of the temple bells 
reaching him, sounding as a reverent benediction to the 
day’s irritations. 

“Namu Amida Butsu,” came the subdued undertone, 
the hum of many supplicants, not far off from where 
he stood. The clouds of incense, odorous, symbolic, 
floated through the night air. They were worshipping 
the Great Lord Buddha, praying for safe journey to Nir¬ 
vana, imploring protection for their dead ancestors. 

“Poor little Flower Garden.” He bowed his head, 
as the temple bells rang out again. 

And faint on the breeze came the response— 

“Namu Amida Butsu.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


Chu-Chu, stealthily observing all that transpired 
from behind a screen in the adjoining room, and whose 
presence was unnoticed by Hawaka, had been taught 
prudence. She kept very quiet until the frightened 
women had been taken away. There was not room in 
the cart for Hawaka, hut he followed behind in the 
darkness, to see that they were delivered in safety. 

Once assured of his being gone, she stepped noise¬ 
lessly out, and searched for the bit of pasteboard Yuri 
had dropped when her knife had fallen. She picked 
it up, unable to read it. She must go there, at once; 
there was no time to be lost. She could not travel, either, 
as rapidly as other people, because her body was very 
fat. Hot stopping to change her kimono, she snapped 
the shoji in place so that the marauding dogs could not 
enter in her absence, and walked as fast as she could 
down the road. 

It was seldom that a rickshaw appeared on the road 
leading to the truck farms. It was a very lowly place, 
where people never rode except for the most urgent 
business. She had small hope of having a friendly lift, 
and her body was a heavy load for her feet. But her 
honorable madame had had a samurai grandfather; it 
was more duty than inclination that spurred her on, 


168 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


169 


and she knew anyway that she would he rewarded by 
the gods, for duty is inexorable. 

Yet, as accidents often arise, there was a rickshaw 
even so coming down the road toward her; it could not 
be Hawaka yet, so she had no fear. In the glow of the 
lantern she caught sight of one of the Honorable For¬ 
eigners who had called to see Yuri in regard to the white 
lady’s child, and she sprang joyfully toward the vehicle 
in the dark, much to the discomfiture of the coolie, and 
greatly to his grief; for she landed with all of her 
weight on one of his feet. While he stopped to rub it, in 
intense pain, she took advantage of the pause to speak 
to the Honorable Foreigner. Breathlessly, she poured 
out her fears, and the danger. The cart that contained 
the two women was of old structure, and wooden. There 
was nothing swifter than a rickshaw, light of wheel like 
a bird on wing. Honorable Foreigner would at once 
overtake them, up the Cherryfield road. 

The Honorable law-man had been on his way to 
Yuri’s, unable to understand why she had not produced 
Cherry Blossom, as she had promised, and he had small 
faith in the native’s pledges. But this assumed a dif¬ 
ferent aspect, and he had his coolie whirl around, in 
spite of his crushed toe, and run as fast as he could to 
overtake Hawaka and his victims. 

The crowded streets, as they proceeded toward the 
Ginza, made it all the better for the pursuit, for it com¬ 
pelled the wooden cart to stop often; but then would 
Hawaka thrust his long hand within, and grab the two 
women, trying every means to punish them for retarding 
the culmination of his plans for so long. He had his 


170 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


revenge now. There would be no more laughter for 
a while. 

Yuri, concealed by the friendly darkness under the 
hood of the cart, writhed, wriggling her tiny frame, 
until slowly she found, with a great sob of thankfulness, 
that she could free one hand. She felt of her bosom. 
Her precious knife was safe. 

She looked out at the crowded streets, insensate with 
sorrow; the twinkling lanterns, the tempting open yomise 
or stalls, all had lost their attraction. There was not 
the slightest chance of an escape, with Hawaka stalk¬ 
ing behind, guarding his precious burden, determined 
to see them safely where he had planned. 

She loved Cherry Blossom. She loved every girlish 
curve of her face, the soft caress of her arms, her soft 
voice. She shed hot, burning tears in the dark, as she 
kissed her over and over. She should never go to the 
Yoshiwara. If there is no hope, there is always an end. 

Sometimes a knife is the best friend—when there is 
the Yoshiwara. In the dark it would be noiseless, cheat¬ 
ing Hawaka of both of them, for she would take the 
long journey with her, too. 

All around them people surged through the streets, 
merry, enjoying the night raiment of the shops, uttering 
prayers to the great gods above, and the tiny “Flower- 
treasures of Nippon,” groups of children, permitted 
always to see the gleaming red and green and orange 
lanterns at night, safe under a parent’s guidance, shouted 
lustily on all sides: 

“Bandi, Bandi. Four million years of happiness. 
Four million years of happiness.” 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


171 


Yuri moaned over lier grief, wondering why the gods 
had punished her, as the cart clattered along the road. 
Sometimes the clang of a tram, along another thorough¬ 
fare, mingled in with the temple bells, or the cries of 
the yellow-and-blue-clad bird dealers, with their chirp¬ 
ing, feathered assortment, songless; for here the night¬ 
ingale is the only singing bird—and the flower pedlar’s 
monotonous: 

“H-asu-no-hana! Flowers to sell!” 

Yuri bit her lips, her sharp little teeth making the 
blood come. She loved Cherry Blossom with all her 
existence. It must happen soon; they would soon be 
approaching the Great Omon, the Thunder Gate, that 
led in. It must all be over by then. But her hand 
trembled so that she almost dropped her knife, her 
teeth chattered as if from a chill, and the girl drew 
closer toward her, in affection. 

“0 hear me, good lord Buddha,” her dry lips moaned, 
as they turned the last corner. She shut her eyes, 
unwilling. 

The blackness of despair, of bitter anguish, numbed 
her. Yo longer could she see; the veins of her forehead 
throbbed unsteadily; her head buzzed with mysterious 
rushing noises, suffocating her, terrorizing her. She 
clutched the handle with savage determination, goaded 
into a demoniacal strength by fleeting disgusting recol¬ 
lections of the Yoshiwara, its pitiless degradations, its 
furnace of lust where vice burnt deep into the soul, 
scorching it, branding it with its hideous, loathsome 
mark—never to forget—tortured always by memory. 


172 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


She raised her hand to strike. 

There was a loud crash that sent their cart spinning 
sideways; with a hoarse, savage cry, a big, powerful, 
half-naked coolie sprang on the leg-men in the traces, 
and with a blow of his mighty fist, sent them sprawling 
and unconscious on the ground. It was all done in the 
twinkling of an eye, the triumph of brutality, and with 
the unerring swiftness of a judgment from on high. 

Amid the frightened cries of the two women, clinging 
to each other, sobbing and laughing hysterically at their 
unbelievable escape, the occupant of the rickshaw had 
jumped out and was pressing a cold piece of steel very 
persuasively against Hawaka’s head, and marshaling 
him to the nearest shop to summon the police. Under 
the lapel of his coat gleamed a badge recognized by the 
Imperial government. 

Hawaka was under arrest. 

An official of the Imperial government, with an im¬ 
portant-looking document in his hand, had seized him, 
and ordered two officers to guard him. There appeared 
to be damaging evidence against him, and to confirm it a 
replica of his picture showed on the white paper, appris- 
ng the police of his crimes. Were evidence of the charge 
of smuggling opium found on Hawaka, the law was to 
be congratulated for its vigilance in securing a danger¬ 
ous violator. 

The official, realizing the feeble foundation for his 
hopes, looked his culprit over, in the futile hope of 
establishing some clue to a discovery. But Hawaka 
was too much the clever criminal to have overlooked the 
possibility of a search of his clothes. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


173 


“Take off your shoes,” the official ordered him, per¬ 
emptorily, and the tone employed brought immediate 
obedience. But again was disappointment depicted on 
the Honorable Law-man’s countenance. He deliber¬ 
ated in silence, unwilling to acknowledge defeat, think¬ 
ing of other probable secret hiding places, but in turn 
rejecting each. The shoes were like all other clogs, sup¬ 
ported by two upright pieces of wood, to hold them off 
the ground. The soles were thick. Indeed, the soles 
were very thick. He took his cane and with the tip 
poked at the bottom; then, with the blade of his knife 
he cut through the sides, revealing a wadding of in¬ 
numerable tiny tissue paper packages. The soles were 
peculiarly thick; they concealed several thousand dol¬ 
lars worth of opium. 

He had his evidence. He grabbed Hawaka by the 
nape of the neck, ordering him summarily to put his 
clogs on, and bade the two officials secure his wrists as 
he finished. 

“My man,” he said with meaning, as Hawaka raised 
his eyes in dull terror; “I’ve got you this time.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Oriental nature is peculiarly emotional, and 
trivialities are more often tragedies with them than 
gigantic perplexities. Transported from abject fear to 
joy at their miraculous deliverance, Yuri was quite posi¬ 
tive that they were none the worse for their experience 
and could proceed to their destination. And gratitude 
made her especially eager to carry out her promise to 
the Honorable Law-man, and see that the Major’s daugh¬ 
ter should arrive in safety. For who could tell ?—Ha- 
waka had not enough intelligence to plan his nefarious 
schemes alone; a worse fate might threaten them to¬ 
morrow. 

The rickshaw drawn by the gigantic coolie was large 
enough to hold both of them, and under the assurance 
of the law-man of their expected advent, and their wel¬ 
come, they began to look forward with much anticipa¬ 
tion to what they had dreaded before. 

It was a confused happy memory afterwards—the 
quick ride along the streets, the approach to the big, 
elegant house where the pretty colored flag floated; stop¬ 
ping at the wide, open door, so different from the shoj i 
they were accustomed to. A native servant had come 
forward, at first with a look of consternation, but it is 
not polite to question; and when Yuri had displayed 
the card the law-man had given her again as he put them 


174 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


175 


in the one rickshaw, anxious to have them proceed in 
safety, the servant bowed very politely, so that his black 
head almost touched the floor. For the Major’s name 
was written on it. 

Yuri straightened Cherry Blossom’s hat as they 
waited alone in one of the big rooms. It had several 
mirrors in it, and while it is not polite to regard one’s 
self in them, there are occasions when excuses can be 
made. Their recent fright, and tears, had left slight 
impression except perhaps on the eyes, but under a 
shaded light one does not notice the color of the moth’s 
wings; so reasoned Yuri, as she dabbed Cherry Blos¬ 
som’s face with her handkerchief. She withdrew into 
the shadows, out of sight, as she heard some one coming. 
Cherry Blossom sat under the glare of the big orange 
chandelier, a strange-looking little figure in her old- 
fashioned dress with the flounces, and the tiny hat with 
its wreath of forget-me-nots. 

A stout, red-faced man, middle-aged, took a step in, 
and with an exclamation of amazement, drew back. 

“My God, Edith!” He rubbed his hands across his 
eyes, in a confused memory. He tottered unsteadily to 
a chair, afraid to touch her, as one in a dream. There 
she was, as on that last bitter day, those years long past 
—eighteen years—when she ran away from him, after 
their foolish lovers’ quarrel; the same skirt with the 
flounces, the same little round hat 'with the wreath of 
forget-me-nots. Eighteen years. He had not forgotten, 
and it was her favorite flower. 

The Major got up, still uncertain on his feet, for the 
shock had been great and he was unprepared for it, the 
startling resemblance, and the sight of the garments she 


176 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


had worn .... He went up to Cherry Blossom, and 
put a hand on each side of her face, and kissed her. 

“My dear child . ...” he said, wiping his eyes. 
He sat beside her, struggling for composure. She was 
his, theirs, his long lost little bride’s, and his. He could 
not talk, hut he patted her hand, too much moved for 
speech. It had carried him hack to the one romance he 
had ever had .... and the long unceasing search he 
had had, ever since .... His little girl— and hers 

.... But it did not take long to adjust himself to his 
newly acquired responsibility, and to be a father gave 
him a genuine pleasure, although he confessed to a sel¬ 
fish consideration of his own desires for years. But there 
are some pleasures that are doubled by sharing, and so 
he came to regard Cherry Blossom. He had taken 
her to his heart as a matter of course; hut Yuri he 
had merely accepted because for the present she was 
a necessity, in looking after his daughter’s needs. 

Then began many visits under Mrs. Denton’s direction 
and she could indulge in all of her mania for shopping 
that she wished; for a suitable wardrobe must he pro¬ 
vided, enough to last for their stay, for the Major was 
making elaborate plans, and had mentally limited his 
sojourn, seeing his quest so happily terminated. 

“Who would ever suspect he carried such a romance 
within him ?” asked Grace, discussing it one evening, at 
one of the early gatherings at the embassy; for the 
diplomatic crowd had been increased by new advents, 
and people were returning from their summer stay at the 
Hot Baths and Sun-Brightness in the hills. 

Once a week the Dentons revived the custom of throw¬ 
ing open their doors for callers, “American Nights” as 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


177 


it had been facetiously called; and this gave opportunity 
for greater social intercourse among the enforced resi¬ 
dents. Grace, arranging the folds of her evening gown, 
a filmy tulle construction, drew her head sidewise, to 
catch the effect in a mirror, a pin in her mouth. “If 
only middle-aged men could be thin, and not bald, I 7 d 
admire them more . . . .” She continued. 

“I’ve always found the Mayor most interesting,” 
Cousin Em retorted in defence; she wore an aigrette in 
her head and it shook menacingly as she spoke. “He 
has never agreed with me on a single subject. It 
is most interesting; for I don’t always like to know 
what every body is going to do. It’s too much like 
machine work. I prefer hand work. And it’s like 
bridge, too. If every hand were the same, how dread¬ 
fully tiresome it would be. Man, any way, is merely one 
of nature’s agreeable blunders.” 

“You always stand up for him.” Grace put in 
caustically. 

“I wouldn’t mind standing up with him,” Cousin Em 
retorted. “When one gets as old as I, she prefers sub¬ 
stantial things—like the Major. It’s just as Emerson 
says: Man is an animal; but he is the only one that can 
laugh, drink when he is not thirsty, —and make love 
the year round . . . Are you ready ? I see that guests 
have already begun to arrive, and we promised your 
mother we would stand in the receiving line to¬ 
night . . . .” 

“In a minute .... I’m getting tired of this unset¬ 
tled love affair of the Imperial Prince. Why can’t they 
settle it, the Chu-Shus and the Satsumas ? It is so annoy¬ 
ing, breaking out afresh every now and then, like a mock 


178 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


battle .... and Great Heavens, Consin Em . . . • 
Look at that procession coming in now. I do believe 
there’s a Cook party in ... . Hid yon ever see so 
many women and with spectacles ? I hope we don’t have 
to pnt them np for the night. If the Clans go on fighting 
.... The library has ten extra cots in it now . . . . ” 

They hnrried ont, with an odorous flutter of tulle and 
silk, their light laughter echoing after them. A hand, 
small, brown, timidly drew the thick portieres aside, 
and a head peeped in. It was Yuri. Her sleek black 
hair was unbecomingly arranged in a coil and the latest 
waving, and she was resplendent in a heavy, ugly, 
though expensive beaded gown. She noticed for some 
one to follow. 

Cherry Blossom stepped in, conscious of her first 
high heels. A wonderful gown of silver gauze, low cut, 
exquisite, made an effective setting for her beauty; if 
she had possessed attractiveness before, in the prim 
though picturesque lines of the kimono, the most critical 
would have to concede that the modern art became her 
more. She radiated loveliness, and with childish pride, 
stole several satisfying glances at herself, in the glass. 
It did not seem possible it was herself, Cherry Blossom; 
and the admiration she felt at looking at the reflection 
was what she would have given to an utter stranger in 
her place; in fact, ^he felt like one. “How you like it, 
Yuri ? How you like it ? See ? Mees Grace, she say I all 
dressed up. But I not. I am dressed down. It is very low, 
at the top. And very high at the bottom. Perhaps Mees 
Grace mean I am dressed up at the bottom. The 
English is so funny . . . . ” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


179 


She opened and shut an expensive rose-pink feather 
fan, lost in admiration of it, like a child with a new 
toy. Yuri gave guttural, half-audible cries of rapture, 
in praise. 

“My pretty white lady girl .... my pretty white 
lady girl . . . . ” She patted the glittering dress with 
reverence. 

There was the odor of a cigar; the heavy inflections 
of masculine voices. The Major, red of face and very 
ill at ease in his dress suit on such a close night, entered, 
the Ambassador beside him. His face lighted up at 
sight of his daughter, a half sad, half whimsical expres¬ 
sion flitting over it, conjuring lost dreams of his youth. 

“My God you look like your mother to-night, 
Cherry,” he ejaculated, feebly. “It is disturbing, Den¬ 
ton—Damned disturbing, after all these years.” 

“Cherry—it’s a pretty name for her,” The Ambas¬ 
sador said, with a paternal tone. “Like the flower she 
is . . . .” 

The Major drew his daughter fondly to him; his un¬ 
familiar caresses at first embarrassed her, but the power 
of blood had asserted itself, and she was beginning to 
take filial liberties with him, patting his large fleshy 
hands; caressing the bald spot on his head. They were 
going to be great friends. The presence of Yuri was not 
so agreeable to the Major; for she jabbered in the jar¬ 
gon he hated and he always felt that she was condemn¬ 
ing him for taking his daughter away from her. 

“She was called Sakurado,” the Major explained, 
pedantically. “That means cherry blossom, I am told. 
I’ll have her christened when we get home, perhaps her 
mother’s name, Edith. I think she would have liked 


180 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


that; I’ve a feeling she knows I’ve found our girl— 
after all these years—Life has some pretty tough 
situations, eh, Denton. It’s good that time has a way of 
dulling the edge of things . . . . ” 

“Yes, yes,” the Amassador replied absently; he must 
take up his stand in the reception room. He nodded a 
friendly smile, moving off. Cherry Blossom stroked 
the Major’s red mottled cheek with little lingering 
touches; the tinge of sadness on his rubicund face hurt 
her. “What you Americans say? . . . Dad?” she asked 
very gently. “Funny name .... But Mees Grace 
says it to her Ambassador father, too .... Dad . . . 
Dear Dad . . . .” He leaned toward her suddenly 
and kissed her soft girlish cheek; he felt an odd mois¬ 
ture in his eyes, and he drew out his handkerchief, and 
vigorously blew his nose. 

“You looked just like your poor mother then,” he said, 
his voice buskv. He went out to the drawing room, proud 
of every admiring look in her direction, hearing the 
whispered romance of his youth on all sides, and found 
a sequestered retreat behind some tubs of palms, large 
tropical trunks that had been the especial admiration of 
the family, as practically they made a wall as defensible 
as one of mortar. He drew Cherry down beside him on 
the small divan. 

Already the numerous rooms were filled, familiar 
faces and strangers finding their way under the hos¬ 
pitable roof, conscious of their welcome. It was true, as 
Grace had hinted; there was some large tourist party 
present, many of them in their traveling attire, but it 
made little comment in the cosmopolitan crowd. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


181 


Deering was. among the last to arrive. He had not re¬ 
garded the drawing room, so early in the season after 
the severely hot summer, with any anticipation of pleas¬ 
ure; for his heart was sore within him; and, sharing 
in Edward’s grief had made him averse to seeking com¬ 
pany. However, a potent desire to escape his dismal 
environment had actuated him into presenting himself, 
more than any thing else, and he passed “down the 
line,” greeting those whom he knew, rushed politely 
into empty introductions to those he did not know, and 
finally found himself at the end, opposite the Major’s 
retreat of palms. 

He grasped his outstretched hand cordially. A girl 
was seated beside him, looking down, shutting and 
opening nervously a large pink fan. He stared at her, 
mentally groping .... 

“My daughter . . . .” said the Major proudly, 
waving a fat hand in her direction. Cherry Blossom’s 
heart gave a great jump of joy and gladness at sight of 
him. Her hands trembled so that she moved her fan 
very rapidly. He would recognize her; it was a moment 
of terrible suspense, and she was frightened at the real¬ 
ization of her deception. In her American clothes per¬ 
haps he would be unable to detect any resemblance. 
She slowly raised her radiant purple eyes, and looked 
at him. Deering had a confused recollection of the 
beautiful droop of the Hishigawa lady’s eyes as she 
looked down; he had almost prayed that by some mira¬ 
cle she would raise them and let him see them. And 
for one foolish, incoherent moment the memory flashed 
over him, leaving him standing there gaping at her, like 
some awkward clown. 


182 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


She looked up; the Hishigawa lady looked down, 
yet he recognized a baffling resemblance between the 
two. 

“Oh, Jack . . . . You here?” Grace swept in from 
the outer room, from the midst of a swarm of black coats, 
where she had presided over the punch howl. He took 
her outstretched hand, hardly aware of what he was 
doing; hut all the time he noticed every movement of 
the Major's beautiful daughter, as she raised her great 
rose-pink fan and alternately shut off her exquisite face 
from his view. 

He must he ill, suffering from the incipient advances 
of some terrible physical breakdown. He had heard 
of strange maladies that afflicted those not acclimated 
in this country. Why should his blood run hot then 
cold as he looked at this girl, at their first meeting? 
Was it the spell of Dai Nippon, the excuse resorted 
to, to condone frailties that would not he permitted 
elsewhere ? He shook off his confusion with an effort, 
people would he laughing at him if he continued 
making such a fool of himself. 

He did not hear a word of what Grace was saying; 
the piazzas had been cleared for dancing; an American 
hand was indefatigably playing Hawaiian music out in 
the garden near the Shinto Temple, just far enough 
away to be melodious, and as he stepped into a waltz 
with Grace, gliding by the Major, his eyes were drawn 
irresistibly to the girl beside him. 

Cousin Em, disengaging herself from an insipid ad¬ 
mirer who marcelled his hair, sank breathlessly into a 
chair beside them; her patent leather pumps hurt her 
feet, and thankful of the Major’s nearsightedness, she 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


183 


kicked them off under her chair. The Major’s simplicity 
of manner, his unpretentiousness, made a strong appeal 
to her consideration. He would he a very comfortable 
personage to go through the ordeal of the breakfast table 
with, as she termed it; it was hard in matrimony to live 
up to a star. She much preferred to attach her pro¬ 
verbial wagon to a good substantial lump of clay, without 
the possible danger of flying through space and alighting 
on another bit of protoplasm just as uncomfortable. She 
was already developing a very maternal fondness for 
Cherry, and there was very little discrepancy between 
the Major’s age and hers. 

“We’ll have to teach you the waltz steps,” she leaned 
over the girl to say. 

“Steps?” Cherry Blossom frowned over the word, 
not understanding. “I can climb them already—up and 
down.” 

“Hot that kind,” Cousin Em explained, without smil¬ 
ing; she was such an innocent with her naive way of 
speaking that one could not make mirth of her speech. 
“Watch Miss Grace. See. That’s the fox trot. It is 
very easy. Tomorrow I’ll show you.” 

Cherry Blossom cast a brief glance at the couple. 
Deering’s arm was necessarily around his partner, in 
the customary position. 

“Ho,” she shook her head decisively. “I will not 
learn Mr. Fox Trot. I do not like him. In Japan we 
never let men put their arms around us, so, until we 
are married. We dance alone; it is just as comfortable. 
We dance the Dance of the Honorable Garden. It is 
very good.” 


184 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“But you are an American, my darling,” the Major 
stroked her hand in affection. Cherry Blossom’s mouth 
twitched convulsively. She had never been so miserable 
in all of her life as now, at sight of Deering holding 
Grace in his arms, as they danced by. Two tears rolled 
slowly down her cheeks and splashed on her fan. “I 
hate the Mr. Fox Trot,” she quavered, in hostility. 

“There, there; you don’t have to learn it, pet,” her 
father soothed her. 

“O, you are so delicious.” Cousin Em caught her 
hand impulsively. “Major, I’m so envious of you I don’t 
know what to do.” She turned to him. “In all my life 
I have never had a thing to love that I wanted. And 
why you should have all the luck, and I none, I don’t 
understand.” 

“I might share it,” the Major smiled at her 
quizzically. 

“You know I smoke cigarettes,” she reminded him 
with a wicked smile. 

“It may affect your nerves hut it hasn’t hurt your 
heart,” he said, warmly. “You know, when a man gets 
to be as old as I, he prefers slippers to shoes, and 
his friends accordingly. I believe you wouldn’t scold 
me if I forgot my collar on a hot day, would you ?” 

“It wouldn’t be any worse than curl papers under a 
boudoir cap,” she laughed back at him. “You are so 
comfortable, Major. If I were younger, I’m afraid I 
would have fallen in love with you—for no other 
reason.” 

“Why younger?” bantered the Major. <r We’ve both 
had our romances, haven’t we ? Komance is cruel—and 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


185 ' 


it generally leaves a scar of some kind. If one sur¬ 
vives it, lie is all tlie better for it—just as having typhoid 
makes one grow big and strong.” 

Cousin Em made no reply; Deering and Grace were 
waltzing by again; they both danced well. She watched 
them with a little lingering regret for the youth that 
was gone. 

“It looks more promising now,” she waved her hand 
in their direction. “I suppose the engagement will be 
announced soon.” The Major looked around, not under¬ 
standing her allusions. 

“Engagement ?” Cherry Blossom leaned forward, her 
eyes serious. “What does it mean ?” 

“It means they have promised to marry each other,” 
Cousin Em explained. 

Cherry Blossom’s beautiful pink fan fell to the floor, 
the fragile tortoise sticks almost ruined by the contact. 
She bent quickly to pick it up; her face seemed suddenly 
pale and sad, and noticing it, in alarm, the Major arose, 
hastily summoning Yuri. He would make her adieus; 
he must insist that she stay indoors. He had warned 
her against being out so much in the garden in the hot 
sun. 

Deering had remarked her absence immediately. He 
had been unable to separate himself from Grace, and 
she was giving a pronounced impressement to their being 
together that it did not warrant, for he resented being 
placed in a position to which he had to submit, from 
courtesy. 

At his first opportunity, he made his way to the 
Major’s side, and dropped in the seat his daughter had 


186 MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 

vacated. There was still the indefinable, elusive odor 
of sandalwood about it. 

“I trust your daughter enjoyed the party,” he said, 
lamely enough, feeling his way over platitudes. 

“My daughter is very young, and not accustomed to 
much frivolity,” the Major replied. “And I have a 
feeling that I want to keep her so.” 

The Major was not disposed to confidences, and with 
ponderous formality, with a mumbled excuse of having 
letters to write, disappeared. 

But chance threw Deering frequently near her. The 
momentous question or dispute involved in the royal en¬ 
gagement had not yet been decided, and it needed only 
the slightest ignition, a careless act, an impetuous word 
from one of the clans, to fan the slumbering flame into 
a blaze. 

Advised by the Dentons, Deering arranged his affairs 
so that he spent little time in his offices, temporizing 
until the political clouds rolled away, and it was inevi¬ 
table that he should pass much of his idle hours with his 
friends. 

There were excuses sufficient, did he need them. Grace 
had undergone a metamorphosis, falling into little 
friendly familiarities with him, as if nothing had arisen 
between them, always devising plans for his pleasure, 
and with such exactness that he always fell to her. 

To him it was meaningless; its value to a casual ob¬ 
server was a matter of supreme indifference, for he had 
emerged from his tribulation with clearer vision, and he 
knew now that he had never really loved Grace Denton 
at all, but was experiencing the usual infatuation that 
is a part of the discipline of youth. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


187 


He seldom had an opportunity to speak to Cherry 
Blossom. Often he was quite content watching her ex¬ 
quisite flawless face, greedily, hungrily, at a slight dis¬ 
tance, the width perhaps of the drawing room, or the 
broad piazzas, or in the garden; for the Major guarded 
his charge with much paternal solicitude and did not 
encourage acquaintances. True it was that already she 
had become an object of divinity to many of the younger, 
men in the circle, under-secretaries, who often did not 
fear to trespass the Major’s proscribed defenses, and 
talk with her; and these little acts, simple enough, would, 
be sufficient to rouse all of the savage jealousy of his 
nature, and he would pass miserable moments until they 
went away. 

Just as her beauty haunted him in busy hours, at 
day, at night, so did the inexplicable resemblance she 
bore to his Hishigawa gradually, strongly impress itself 
on him, and it seemed incredible that two faces could 
be so much alike, separated by centuries of two hundred 
years. The droop of the eyes, the radiant, violet purple 
eyes, was the same; but Cherry had no hesitancy in 
looking up, though she seldom looked at him; and the 
beauty of the great artist’s time looked down—although 
he had prayed to see into them. Would they have been 
the same? There was such a startling likeness in tho 
other features. 

One day he watched her in the garden; he had been 
unannounced, and knew where he would find Mrs. Den¬ 
ton during the golden hours of the afternoon. His sur¬ 
mise proved correct; for they were enjoying tea. But 
it was Cherry who was solemnly going through the 
pretty ceremonial, the Cho-Ho-Yu, or the Honorable 


188 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Tea Ritual, showing them gravely the meaning of the 
ancient superstition. It must he done without the aid of 
another, or it w T ould lose its potency; the fire had to he 
ignited from the charcoal; the mat on which the honor-* 
able guests knelt, one at a time, must he brushed for 
the purpose, indicating her pleasure in serving them, 
then the taper must he applied to the reeds of incense. 

It was a colorful picture and held his gaze entranced. 

The Shinto Temple at the end of the garden gave it 
impressiveness; some grotesque demons, rigid in stone, 
were set among the flaunting red and white camellias., 
Ar> avenue of glory, rose-colored, late blooming flowers, 
stretched over to a tiny rustic bridge, and in the pool, 
in brilliant dashes of lustre, the gold carp sparkled like 
so many jewels. 

Over the ground the pink Heji-bana crept in a heavy 
carpet, making soft cushions for the feet, and stretching 
whimsically toward the sun as a child raises its eager 
face to the" sky. The light, delicately tinted gowns of 
the women made a harmonious contrast. 

And in their midst, a glittering, scintillating little 
figure in a rare, richly embroidered blue and gold 
kimono, her bronze hair looped high in true Oriental 
fashion, stood the Major’s daughter. 

The mounds were the handiwork of man; each was 
distinguished by a name; it rushed over Deering that 
he was standing on the Mound of Contemplation, where 
often laughingly, in the brilliant moonlight peculiar to 
the tropics during the summer, they had thrown tiny 
balls of the honorable rice to O-Tsuki-Sama, the hon¬ 
orable Moon, emulating the custom of the country. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


189 


He watched the women partake of the Kiss of Broth¬ 
erhood—after Cherry reverentially pounded the dried 
tea leaves to a fine powder, poured over it some honor¬ 
able hot water, and made the sickly looking bright green 
tea. Her little hands flew rapidly up and down as she 
vigorously heat it with a tiny bamboo whipper. This 
finished, Mrs. Ambassador, as she called Mrs. Denton, 
was the first to enter the pert little pagoda where she had 
installed her paraphernalia. Mrs. Denton had no faith 
in ceremonials, but it was certainly a very pretty scene 
to transpire in her garden, and she was going to have a 
photograph of it taken to send “back home.” It would 
make quite a stir among her old friends. 

Cherry politely motioned her to kneel down; she must 
take three sips or he ostracised for ill-breeding; then 
wipe the rim and pass it very gravely to her honorable 
hostess, taking great care that her lips fell at the same 
place. 

The Major, his linen suit crinkled from the damp¬ 
ness, rushed out, not understanding its significance, and 
frowning over his mental inaptitude to grasp it; hut 
he dimly comprehended that it had something to do 
with the inherent superstitions he condemned. He did 
not think it right that his daughter should display her¬ 
self in such pagan actions. With a muttered “Confound 
it,” he turned away, his eye alighting on Deering, who 
was enjoying the scene. 

“That’s what the priests teach them,” he snapped out, 
knocking the ashes off his cigar with the tip of his 
finger. “They lay down the law for their religion, love 
and family. They’re responsible for the country’s utter 


190 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


lack of progressiveness, for if you took away their pro¬ 
fessions, how could they earn a living ? It’s to their ad¬ 
vantage to keep these people credulous. These little 
brown folks are just as intelligent and clever as any 
other race, more than many races, hut these high moguls 
purposely stuff their heads with fear, to keep them under 
their thumbs. Let them break away, and Til bet you 
they’d give us a fine run to keep up with them.” 

“I believe you’re right, Major,” Deering assented. 
“But somehow, if you take away all of these little cere¬ 
monials from this country, you’d he robbing it of its 
greatest charm. It belongs here; there’s not a jarring 
note in it. It belongs to the atmosphere of the Old 
Japan; what do they call it? Yamato damashii. Look, 
what a beautiful picture this is before us, the garden, the 
coloring. Your daughter does credit to it. The women 
are eager to be initiated into the Cha-Ho-Hu. I’ll con¬ 
fess, since looking at it, I feel like trying it myself.” 
He laughed awkwardly, under the Major’s sharp eyes. 

“Don’t he a fool, Deering. It’s not a man’s game. 
Women are naturally foolish, being part child that they 
are. I don’t care what they do, but I don’t like to have 
my daughter up for criticism this way. And this Jap¬ 
anese superstition to crush keeps me up in the air.” 

“I don’t see how you can blame her,” Deering cried, 
impulsively. “She has been raised here, imbibed it 
from her earliest youth. Once she is with girls of her 
own land it will be unconscious mimicry—the ways she 
will pick up. I hope, though, that she won’t have that 
opportunity for a long time.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


191 


“You mean our return to America V 9 

“Yes.” Deering waited expectantly for a definite 
relief of his fears as to their departure. Cousin Em’s 
timely appearance from an afternoon siesta spared the 
Major the inconvenience of a reply, for by nature he 
was reticent and taciturn and made admissions only 
when he could not escape it. She linked her arm in the 
Major’s, for the especial benefit of Grace, who was ap¬ 
proaching with some of the guests, and they were en¬ 
thusiastically planning a moonlight ride to Asakusa 
Park, the Vanity Fair of the Imperial City, to watch 
the illuminations on the river. 

Deering passed on to greet Mrs. Denton; then with 
more trepidation than he cared to acknowledge, conscious 
all the time that the Major’s daughter was looking every¬ 
where else hut at him, he stepped into the pagoda. She 
turned her face, her cheeks strangely red, gravely re¬ 
ceiving his salutation. Then she looked away again. 

“You like honorable tea, too ?” she asked, in faltering 
English, blushing again. 

“I would like it very much,” he said fervently. She 
waved her little hand toward a brilliant blue cushion. 

“Then you kneel, so.” He obeyed her instructions, 
with promptitude. She took the cup of egg-shell china, 
a dainty robin’s-egg-blue affair, and filled it with the 
green beverage; taking three sips, she extended it in dig¬ 
nified silence to him, and for the second his hand brushed 
against hers; he repressed a foolish desire to catch it, 
hold it, letting the cup break into fragments. But in¬ 
stead, with his pulses throbbing at this exquisite prox¬ 
imity to her, both of them kneeling, facing each other on 
the cushion, looking into her eyes, he pressed his lips 


192 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


where hers had been on the rim of the cup, and took the 
required sips. There was one delirious, electric second, 
a rush of emotion that made him dizzy, and it seemed 
to him that all the world had passed away and he and 
she were there alone, reading paradise in that inexplic¬ 
able, deep, long glance. 

“That—the Kiss of Brotherhood, Meester Deering,” 
she said softly, rising and nodding her burnished head. 
“That mean you and I always friends.” 

“Always,” he began impetuously. 

“Cherry! Cherry!” The Major’s strident tones 
crashed through the beautiful moment, destroying its 
unwritten ecstasy. 

“I say, daughter, hurry a bit. The rickshaws are 
waiting and you must take off that outlandish dress if 
you want to come. Leave the things where they are. 
The servants can bring them in.” 

Cherry Blossom’s little mouth began to droop, child¬ 
ishly. She looked imploringly at Deering. 

“I take off my beautiful dress? Why? Other women 
wear it. It do no harm at all. My dress cannot make 
me what I am not bom, can it, Meester Deering ? My 
honorable father do not like this; you do, don’t you, 
Meester Deering?” 

“Indeed, I do; I love it—I mean, I like everything 
you have,” he exclaimed confusedly. How could he 
think or talk coherently if she looked at him that way, 
her eyes mutinous, clouded with unshed moisture like 
the dew on woodland violets. He must evince more 
rationality; some of the women of the party were listen¬ 
ing, and he made a supreme effort to talk sensibly. “I 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


193 


think your father wants to see you become a real Ameri¬ 
can. Then you will seem more real to him. He has not 
always had you, you see, and when you are dressed like 
the young ladies here in Japanese clothes, it makes him 
feel that you are one of them and not of his own. flesh 
and blood. That is the way it is.” 

They walked toward the house; through the wide- 
open hallway, glimpses of the people could be had, the 
echo of their light laughter reaching them. The rick¬ 
shaws, or kurumas, were in a long line, each coolie wait¬ 
ing to be summoned by the native house man, Taka. 
Behind, the big wire wheels of a motor car made a pro¬ 
saic contrast, in its insinuations of modern comfort. 

“I wish I were American lady like those,” Cherry 
Blossom sighed, with sadness flitting over her face. “It 
isn’t all in me yet, Meester Deering. All inside me still 
Japanese, but perhaps someday I grow better. Every¬ 
body like American ladies. They do not mean what they 
say and men like that. Men do not always like to know 
what the ladies mean.” 

Her father’s corpulent form blocked the hall as he 
approached with a wrap. He threw it over her gorgeous 
raiment, gently pushing her toward the door. 

“She’ll have time to change her dress,” he looked at 
his watch, as the gaily chattering group began to dart 
off in the rickshaws. Cousin Em stepped forward with 
decision. $ 

“Nonsense. She isn’t going to change it, Major. I 
don’t see any reason why she should, just because you 
don’t like it. She looks positively charming in it, doesn’t 
she, Jack?” 


194 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


SSKSSSSEX-i* 

“S^SI'S-,;.?."” 1 -; 

sst 2 “»«u i-s 

Cherry Blossom’s company. hLis t 

dlS “Come,^Cousin Em said, with her refrying author¬ 
ity “Call your new chauffeur, Major We re going to 
2 the new car,” she explained, catching Deenng s ex- 

a” ci I m > -ji’tz S: 

Lck seat if you don’t mind; for I want to have tne 
Maior explain the brakes to me, and the front seat is 
made ior three. Perhaps someday I’ll he dm’mg i 
” But the Major did not notice her significant 

st J * r ^ 

the kimono with an ample wrap. He tad the teelin 
that the influence of such factors prevented his daughter 
from tecoming more rapidly like the g rls of his own 
W. And he S did not intend that any differences, geo- 
graphical or ethical, should separate them. 


CHAPTER XV 


The sky was faintly dark; O-Tsuki-Sama, the hon¬ 
orable moon, was edging in a silver thin crescent over 
the horizon; soon its rays would spread through the 
fragrant lanes of trees down which they rolled, envelop¬ 
ing them in its white radiance. Here in the dark, on the 
bridges, they went very carefully to avoid the bundles 
of rags, the beggars, who made these spots the place for 
importunities, for night has its shadows, when the 
underworld creeps out. Crowds are their haunt, and in 
the temples, under the cloak of piety, thieves and ruffians 
ply their vocation. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the east and west, favors to 
the old sick one,” whined the supplications around them, 
as humanity swarmed in the park; the cries of the food 
sellers and the itinerant pedlars of endless variety made 
irritating discords with the persistent dirge of the Chi¬ 
nese buckwheat seller as he played his flute. 

Yet there was charm. In the temple one could take 
delight in the cheerful decorations, listen to the devout 
“Hear me, Great Lord Buddha,” clapping the hands in 
the fashion of the pious ones; and if it is in the daytime 
when a visit is made, those noisy chirping messengers 
of the gods, the pompously strutting pigeons must be 
fed, greedily devouring the handfuls of grain scattered 
among them. 


195 


196 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


The protection of the car made the ride more enjoy¬ 
able; for the throng of pleasure-seekers jostled each 
other, crowded the paths, and blocked the thoroughfares 
in an impenetrable wall. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the east and west, favors 
to the old sick one.” 

A beggar, hold from privation, caught recklessly at 
their wheels, just escaping danger. The light of a green 
lantern fell on his sightless eyes, no worse than the 
wicked leer of his hideous face. 

Deering threw him a coin, to get rid of his repulsive 
appearance. 

The tea houses shone with the glitter of their night 
allurements. Richly-dressed people sat at tables sipping 
their honorable cha; or the little cups of sake, tepid 
and sweetish, like half-warm sherry from a musty 
bottle. 

Once the car gave a lurch as they were forced to come 
to an abrupt halt, because of an avalanche of humanity 
before them. There was no danger, but Cherry Blossom 
had never ridden in a motor before, and to her primitive 
mind, it was a medium of disaster in its invisible powers 
of locomotion, its hoarse warning horn, instead of the 
rasping “Hai! Hai!” familiar to her ears. To he borne 
on so swiftly, with no labor, no effort, invested it with 
supernatural attributes. Tomorrow she would do some 
lantern prayers. But no; she had promised her honor¬ 
able father hereafter not to perform such penances. He 
was teaching her that she had only one Supreme God 
and he was everywhere, all over the world, and heard 
everything one said, or even thought. It was very 
wpnderful. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


197 


“You’re not frightened,” Deering’s voice, masterful,, 
tender, which always made her heart heat so fast, 
sounded, interrupting her meditation. He leaned toward 
her in the dark, and his hand fell over hers, to assure 
her of their safety. He did not at once remove it; in 
fact, he was unaware of his action until she gently with- 
drew hers. 

“Ho, not with you, Meester Deering,” her voice re¬ 
plied, and it seemed to him it faintly trembled. Still, 
he was not positive. There was so much noise around 
them. In front, Cousin Em’s carefully marcelled head, 
with its bristling Spanish comb, made a landmark, a 
reminder of discretion. He must not jeopardize these 
privileges by any blunders. 

Cherry Blossom followed the panorama of color with 
enjoyment. Then suddenly her face took on a look of 
terror. She drew back instinctively, hut not before 
Shiko’s cunning little eyes had seen her, a stone’s throw 
away from them; and the sight of his evil countenance 
recalled all of her former dread and fear. Ho matter 
if she were the Major’s daughter; no matter if she were 
West now, and he East, he had vowed he would do her 
harm. It was not possible that Hawaka, who was now 
enjoying prison in punishment for his violations of the 
law, could have planned all of his treachery alone. She 
felt confident that Shiko had abetted him. 

Her pleasure was gone. She was afraid. She had 
been so happy, away from all remembrance of those 
horrible days of fear, and the ride that night with 
Hawaka behind them. The sight of Shiko was like a 
foul apparition, that presaged some hovering danger. 


198 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


And it was all the more dangerous because it was so 
subtle. Shiko was capable of any crime. 

Deering, noticing tbe expression of ber face, misin¬ 
terpreted it. He was afraid bis impulsiveness bad 
offended her. 

“You are not angry with me? Have I displeased 
you ?” He tried to see ber eyes, but tbe gloom made it 
impossible. 

“Ho,” replied Cherry Blossom, and sighed. She 
turned toward him, with, a childish burst of confidence. 
“I go to America with my honorable Major father. That 
be good,” she cried. “That make everything all right.” 

“Ho, no; please don’t,” he forgot his self-caution and 
caught her hand. “Please don’t let them take you away, 
Miss Lynde. I... I...” He pulled himself up shortly, 
frightened at his own recklessness. “I hope you will 
stay,” he added more calmly. “Do you know, Japan 
wouldn’t seem the same if you went away.” 

Cherry Blossom looked peculiarly at him, trembling 
under the fervor of his voice, her hand on her heart to 
stop its hurried beating. Something fell smartly on 
them, hard, small, as Cousin Em leveled a package the 
Major had given her, toward them. It was some Jap¬ 
anese gods, those fat, ugly little effigies of luck that im¬ 
ply delightful possibilities, which never materialize. 

It broke the spell. Cherry touched them gravely; 
then her fingers slipped off them. She had promised 
her honorable father to renounce these evidences of 
paganism, and she must keep her word. She thrust 
them into Deering’s hand as it rested on his knee. 

“I give them to you, Meester Deering,” she said 
softly. “It is the god of Happiness.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


199 


“There are two—both Happiness ?” 

Cherry Blossom looked down, and even in that dim 
light he was amazed at the remarkable resemblance of 
her drooping eyes to those of the Hishigawa lady. 

“There never two Happiness,” she enlightened him 
with gentleness. “Only one Happiness, and that big 
enough for everything. The other god I not tell you— 
now. Perhaps, some day.” 

O-Tsuki-Sama came out of the eastern sky, with a 
drapery of silver in her glittering wake; her light fell 
at that moment across Cherry Blossom’s face. She 
looked up into his eyes, and he saw again that memor¬ 
able night in his toy bamboo cottage when the thunder¬ 
storm had shaken the flimsy structure ; and he had 
thought the Hishigawa lady turned her proud head, ever 
so slightly, and for once raised her drooping eyes, and 
looked at him, as he had prayed she would . He rubbed 
his hand dazedly across his forehead, tormented by the 
illusion, fretting over his chaotic thoughts. It was gone, 
that elusive, mocking suggestion of familiarity. Gone. 
And supreme in the black velvet of the sky, O-Tsuki- 
Sama rode with her pageantry of silver and jewels. 

The fate that had befallen Hawaka had influenced 
Shiko into absenting himself from his customary haunts, 
for his apprehensions and fears, aware of the treachery 
of which his friend was capable, led him to adopt ex¬ 
treme caution in his every movement. For that reason, 
like other birds of ill-omen, he chose night for his pur¬ 
suits, and even under that canopy of darkness, with his 
innate cunning, made no plans which could arise to later 
confront him. 


200 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


The sudden disappearance of Cherry Blossom had af¬ 
fected him more than any episode which had transpired 
in his life, and it had been punctuated with many, of 
kaleidoscopic nature, foul and had. Obstacles, in Shiko’s 
path, were never surmounted. They were destroyed, 
and if his weapons had been used by another, at least 
they had been subtle enough to have escaped detection. 

His jealousy led him to believe that Matsuki, the 
Mongolian, who kept the brothel in the Hon jo, had at 
last accomplished his threats and held her captive. Twice 
had he hired assassins to attack his rival, and each time, 
■as if by dispensation of the gods, the evil bloated-faced 
-voluptuary had evaded the traps, unconscious of the 
tragedy that stalked behind him. 

He then planned a more destructive end for Matsuki. 
Money could accomplish what neither the gods nor the 
law could. Matsuki had hitherto played and cheated 
at cards to secure possession of the girl he loved. 
Whether he had done so or not, Shiko in his jealous 
frenzy did not care to know, blinded into swift action as 
he was. Matsuki had played to win Cherry Blossom 
with Hawaka. Now, he should play with him, Shiko, 
the rich one, at the point of his two assassin’s guns, for 
his own life. Losing or winning, the end would be the 
same. But it gave an aspect of politeness to encourage 
his victim into believing that his life depended on his 
own skill in the game. 

Shiko chuckled to himself over his plan, and when 
night came, followed by his well-paid men, who had 
adopted the guise of travelers, or pilgrims, in their knap¬ 
sacks and brimmed hats, he led the way to the kichin- 
yador, their paths apparently parting; for the men 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


201 


entered, asked for a night’s lodging paid their sen, and 
dropped as if fatigued from their day’s walking, to the 
rag of a mat on the floor, stretching out as if for sleep. 

Shiko waited until silence prevailed, and he was rea¬ 
sonably sure that the guests of the inn—filthy bundles 
of grime and tatters, thieves intent on robbing others 
worse off than themselves, and women of cheap virtue 
who sought the dive for stray pennies, or sen—had all 
succumbed to fatigue or its semblance. Then, with his 
arrogant air, he sauntered into the place, not losing a 
single detail of the room, every faculty alert for quick 
action, if necessary, his yellow-stained fingers on the 
hilt of his knife, concealed under his robe. Outwardly 
his calm was enviable. He saw the man he sought bend¬ 
ing over his ledger on the counter, satisfied with his 
returns. The evil white face, swollen into hideous rings 
around the glittering tiny slants of eyes, brought into 
activity all of the fury which Shiko’s slight frame could 
hold, so that he trembled as if from a chill—as a tiger 
often palpitates at beholding its victim approaching in 
the jungle. 

“Matsuki,” breathed Shiko, ingratiatingly, extending 
the hand away from the knife. 

Matsuki passed it by, reaching for the right one. 

“You salute backwards,” he announced, his eyes sus¬ 
picious. 

Shiko laughed easily. “It is hurt. A nasty wound. 
Some robber attacked me even so for money—one of 
those damned Americans, who comes over to our beauti¬ 
ful country to murder even for money. But what can 
we do ? Our lives dedicated to our ideals and the price¬ 
less worship of our Imperial Ancestors. We cannot have 


202 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


blood on our fingers, even for money. I say it is un¬ 
bearable. I hate them all, with their shaved faces and 
their ridicule of us, and their tricks in business. La, 
la; a match, please.” 

Matsuki acquiesced, disarmed by his friendliness. 

Shiko puffed at his cigarette, his left hand holding it. 

“Today,” he went on, confidentially, “I say, I miss 
my game with Hawaka. My good friends all disap¬ 
peared. Where is he? I do not know. I know I am 
lonely. Ho one plays games with me—and the geisha. 
Pouf, one could see them spit into the earthquake 
holes, for the amusement they provide. Nothing new 
any more. No new dances, false faces all old. Shiko 
must live. Shiko must be amused. I pay well for good 
games, just as I pay well for new amusements. But 
there is nothing interesting left. Nobody plays the good 
game Hawaka did. Such skill, such cleverness, such 
wonderful maneuvres. I would challenge any man in 
this world if I knew of any who could play like Hawaka. 
But there is not one who can come up to him, of that 
I am certain.” 

Matsuki leered at him over the counter. His fingers 
had long, sharp nails, like the talons of a vulture, hooked 
at the end. He raised his hand in protest. 

“Take that back, Shiko. I used to beat Hawaka even 
not trying to play. Always has he lost to me, the great 
Matsuki. Hawaka clever at cards ? It gives me a laugh; 
you are so foolish. You have believed him, that is all. 
Sometime, I show you how I play. I never lose. I play 
always to win. Then you can talk about skill, when you 
see Matsuki play.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


203 


Shiko laughed noisily. The travelers on the ragged 
mat rolled over, as if enjoying their rest. 

Matsuki’s white puffed face reddened at Shiko’s in¬ 
solent, doubting air. 

“Some day I will teach you, young man. You cannot 
make fun of Matsuki’s playing. I, who beat that miser¬ 
able liar, Hawaka. Do you hear me?” 

“One cannot believe mere words,” said Shiko with 
his most aggravating manner. His right hand had 
clutched firmly around his knife. One could never tell, 
dealing with Matsuki, who believed in no gods. It 
might not be necessary even to play any game. Self- 
defense was always justified in the eyes of the law. 

“What do you say ?” shrieked Matsuki, tearing at his 
closely cut hair, as if rent with anger. “What do you 
say, to me the great Matsuki? You believe Hawaka, 
eh ? You believe a scoundrel who never even paid me 
one sen of what he owed me? You shall see, Shiko, 
and swallow your own words so that every one of them 
cuts to the blood in your chicken throat. Do you hear ? 
How, I will give you a lesson. You will never need 
one again. Too long have I put up with your infernal 
words. May the gods shrivel your tongue before another 
day comes, and the black crows take the carrion of your 
dirty heart. Here, I open this door. Down there, where 
nobody knows, we play—you and I—each for himself, 
life for life. You have doubted my word, just because 
that miserable Hawaka said so. It is your last night, 
Shiko.” He motioned Shiko to precede him, but ho 
held back smiling, though his heart sounded in heavy 
labored beats, as he realized his dangerous situation. 


204 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“Lead tlie way, my friend,” said Shiko, blandly, bow¬ 
ing low in a polite sweep of bis robe on tbe dirty floor. 
He shook the folds gracefully, catching them up, pre¬ 
paratory to descending the dark, uninviting stairs. Mat- 
suki turned around, threateningly. 

“I am the host. My guest takes the lead.” He 
ordered, with a gesture of his fat, hairy arm. 

“As you say,” said Shiko, coughing loudly. The trav¬ 
elers stirred on the mats. Matsuki shoved him forward, 
and ponderously took a step behind him, unaware that 
the two men on the floor were suddenly aroused to action. 
They bounded on noiseless feet behind him, and half 
fell on him as they all cluttered in the dark, on the nar¬ 
row steps, the trap door resounding with a thud behind 
them. One of them, the last, had carefully seized the 
key before the door fell. 

The four men tumbled down in the dark, with mut¬ 
tered oaths, until Matsuki, conscious of the miscarriage 
of his plans, switched on a light from some source, and 
they stared at each other as if taken by great surprise. 
The sharp gaze of the foremost traveler had espied some¬ 
thing which escaped Shiko, behind him. Hiding under 
some bales at one end of the room, he had seen the mov¬ 
ing form of a coolie, and he had no doubt but that Mat¬ 
suki kept others posted near, in case of need. 

“This man, Shiko, doubts my word, that I, the great 
Matsuki, beat that miserable scoundrel Hawaka,” cried 
the inn-keeper, in rage, his glittering eyes scintillating 
sparks of fire in his brutish anger. “I show him. I give 
him a lesson now that he never forget. [Never again 
can he say that.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


205 


“As you say,” Shiko bowed with politeness. “May 
we have some air ? The room is close. Opium ?” 

Matsuki’s face grew livid. His long yellow teeth al¬ 
most bit through the thinner texture of his lips, con¬ 
trolling his unleashed, primitive passions. 

“There is air enough for our game. Soon you need 
no more, anyway,” he said, sullenly. “You will enjoy 
it, my good friend. Here there is no interruption. Ho- 
body can ever hear above. I will be a good host, I can 
tell you. Sit down.” He turned to the men who had 
followed them down. “Gentlemen, what can I do for 
you ? Another game ? It is well. You doubt my word, 
too? I will play with all. Hobody can say Hawaka 
played a better game than I. The stakes ? I await your 
word.” Matsuki smiled grimly at them, sure of his 
skill. 

“You yourself announced the stakes a few minutes 
ago,” said Shiko, agreeably. “We will not change our 
host’s demand.” 

“Life for life ?” asked Matsuki. He looked at Shiko’s 
thin, sharp face in meditation. 

“I was joking,” he said, watching the pinched, dissi¬ 
pated face before him. 

“One does not jest with death,” Shiko said, ominously. 
“I am too polite to try to change the word of my host. 
Is it not so, gentlemen? I appeal to strangers to sup¬ 
port me. Always have I been taught the Elegant Man¬ 
ners. One needs them dying as much as living, I say.” 

Matsuki laughed forcedly. His gaze traversed the 
gloomy room, and, satisfied, fell upon the gaming table. 


206 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


“As you say,” lie acquiesced. ‘‘You shall deal, so 
that no one can say that Matsuki did not give fair play. 
The gentlemen hear. They seem to be good pilgrims, 
perhaps from Nikko, with the holy spell of the Shogun 
Tombs on their robes. Ah, my pious friends, you will 
soon see another Sun-Brightness, with a different kind 
of a tomb. I am jesting, hut we all like a little laugh to 
relieve the long journey into Nirvana. It is better than 
a curse. My cards, good Shiko? Thanks. Now it is 
your play.” 

The game progressed without a single noise to break 
the deadly silence. Only the sound of falling cards 
caught the ear. Shiko’s left hand, supported under the 
robe by his right one, grasped the bits of pasteboard in 
a vise. Determined to keep up the semblance of interest 
until the proper time arrived, he was unaware of the 
frequent sly glances Matsuki stole around the room, as 
if counting his hidden farces. But one traveler had not 
lost one movement of those rat-like eyes, nor one gesture 
of the powerful, brawny arms. For that reason he pre¬ 
ferred to bend over the inn-keeper’s shoulder, praising 
his skill at every play, admiring the apparent proficiency 
he displayed. No one is above the lethal influence of 
flattery. A dog can he petted into friendliness; a warrior 
can be subjugated by praise. It was so with Matsuki. 
Always on the defensive, he regarded every one with 
suspicion, for there were many whispered affairs which 
should have brought disaster on his head. Friends or 
foes, they were all the same to him—although he pre¬ 
ferred the open enmity of the latter, being then fore¬ 
warned. A friend’s attack could not he so openly met. 
The praise of the traveler now pleased him. He felt a 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


207 


bond of understanding between them because of it. And 
he made several unusual plays with success, determined 
to prove his boast. 

“You lose; the game is over/’ he announced finally, 
tossing his hand on the table, face up. “I have the win¬ 
ner.” He shoved his chair back, standing to his full 
height, an enormous frame, horrible in its animal stamp¬ 
ing, the thick, ugly, sensual mouth, the bestial eyes. 

He extended a long, hairy arm toward Shiko, his 
countenance illuminated by a leer. 

“Good-bye, my dear Shiko. Your journey is near. 
But first, please, hand over that knife in your right 
hand.” 

“The devil I will,” snarled Shiko, jumping in one 
bound toward him and clutching his arms around Mat- 
suki’s neck. “Here, gentlemen, your guns.” He 
laughed uproariously. “My good Matsuki, you thought 
I was fooled, didn’t you ? You were going to teach me 
a lesson, is it not so, my good Matsuki ? On the contrary, 
Shiko will give you a lesson in the Elegant Manners. 
It is not polite to go first. You shall start out now, and 
then perhaps you will be waiting to receive me when 
I do make up my mind to go. La, la.” He doubled 
in his mirth, as the travelers leveled their guns at Mat¬ 
suki, but one of them kept his eyes as well on the gloomy 
corners of the room. Something had moved at Matsuki’s 
cry of surprise when Shiko jumped on him. He stood 
so that his face was looking upon the entire space. 

Matsuki laughed long and heartily. In a trice, the 
room seemed full of creeping human beings, on the floor, 
in the comers, behind the bales, a small armed body, 


208 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


their glittering blades held high, their impassive faces 
devoid of any sign of feeling. Quick as a flash, Shiko’s 
knife plunged deep into Matsuki’s side, deeper, deeper 
—there could not he any failure now, with that ghastly 
army of murderers around him, and Matsuki must go 
first. Of that he was determined. The heavy body 
lunged forward, helpless despite its powerful structure, 
its mighty arms useless for ever, the wicked, bloated 
face sealed in its last earthly expression of hatred and 
passion and fury. The lights snapped out. Knives 
thrust out in the black pit, curses rang out in pain, as 
the battle waged. Shiko felt himself actually lifted off 
his feet and carried bodily, noiselessly, on the hack of 
one of the men. The scuffling of the combatants made 
their steps as they ascended the stairs unheard. The 
traveler with the key softly unlocked the trap, thrust 
his slight body out first, then followed quickly, and 
locked the door behind him. 

“The devil take them all,” he passed his benediction 
on them. “Besides, my good friend Yago, who was 
to aid me, and who owes me ten yen, cut me with his 
own knife, the rascal. He can cut for himself down 
there now, and who ever wins out can eat the others or 
die of starvation. It is indeed true. Ho one can ever 
hear them upstairs. Ho one knows any one is down 
there. You and I, Shiko, we only know the truth. To¬ 
night you can buy me some fine clothes like your own. 
And I would like my own rickshaw, too, a place to sleep, 
plenty of rice, and when you do not need your geisha, 
she can amuse me.” 

The hands of the traveler, his rescuer, grabbed his 
wrists with such strength that the skin was bruised. 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


209 


“For what else did I save you, you miserable, white- 
livered beast ? Do you think it was for love of such as* 
you? Do you think it was because I wanted to please 
the gods ? Hear me, now. Understand, will you, that 
I must live. I saw your knife go creeping after Mat- 
suki’s heart—and found it. You may be rich, Shiko. 
That could not keep you from the law’s clutches, with 
other things I know. It was because you are rich I 
decided to save you, so you can support me. How, 
laugh, will you? Ho more curses from you, my good 
friend. I ride in your kuruma from now on.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


Days of dread began for Shiko. Always behind him, 
persistent in its deadly significance, he heard, the step 
of his tormentor, a parasite draining his very life blood, 
holding his menace over him day and night. 

There were no more hours of idle contentment and 
independence, just as there was no opportunity to ar¬ 
range with other assassins for his destruction. 

It was but part of his punishment for killing Matsuki. 

When he caught sight of Cherry Blossom’s radiant 
happy face in Asakusa Park, in the car beside one of the 
foreigners whom he disliked, it gave him a distinct 
shock, which momentarily affected him disagreeably, for 
he realized swiftly that he had murdered Matsuki in 
vain, and without any real provocation; and that the 
indiscretion had brought upon him a fate more terrible 
than he had anticipated in having his secret shared. 

All of the ungovernable passion he had entertained for 
Cherry Blossom was fanned anew into a powerful con¬ 
flagration of physical and mental forces, and he could no 
more control this emotion than he could array the argu¬ 
ments of racial differences against it. 

He must gain possession of her. His marriage with 
the daughter of the thread merchant was approaching, 
and already was his proud father delighting in the gift 


210 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


21 i 


of the sable coat, but trivial details of that nature of¬ 
fered no obstruction to carrying out bis wishes, and be 
saw at last a use for Isbito, his persecutor. By offering 
him a stipend that should place him forever beyond pe¬ 
cuniary want, be could induce him to secure the prize 
be coveted with a disregard that made him ignore all 
consequences. He must have her; the charm of her blue 
eyes, her sunny hair, every contour of her flawless fea¬ 
tures floated before him continually. Never before bad 
be been denied anything for which be yearned with 
such fervor. Isbito must male plans at once. 

The Oriental has a saying to the effect that evil plans 
travel on swift feet. 

Each day added to the net that was being spread. 
The prominence of the Moroshito firm in the silk in¬ 
dustry gave ample opportunity for inquiries to be made 
of various attaches of the Embassy, opportunities which 
provided an excuse for both Shiko and Isbito being on 
the grounds, and permitted them to linger in the beau¬ 
tiful gardens. 

Shiko’s cunning saw to it that every step was care¬ 
fully planned out in advance. He knew exactly where 
the tiny paths radiated from the Mound of Contempla¬ 
tion, the winding threads of lovers’ lanes, where growths 
of young bamboo provided dense curtains of green. 

Once he had watched Yuri and Cherry Blossom her¬ 
self walk up and down the remote by-ways, his whole 
being aflame at sight of the girl he loved, impelled to 
rush toward her and carry her off bodily; but it was 
not yet time for the consummation of his schemes. 

Warfare had begun again between the two clans. 
Long-repressed savagery burst into renewed activity, and 


212 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


disorder and riots prevailed. The Satsumas hated the 
Chu-Shus with an intensity born of generations of 
injustices. 

Time was when friendly relations were enjoyed, and 
mutual creeds were supported. But now each clan 
fought independently for its standard of right, and their 
hitter antagonism was cruelly breaking the heart of the 
dainty princess whom the boyish Crown Prince loved, 
merely because the army wished the adoption of its man¬ 
dates and the navy insisted on the adoption instead of 
theirs. 

A hasty summons from the Embassy impressed on 
Peering the necessity of abandoning his cottage for the 
present. Euji had departed, yet every morning the 
house was in meticulous order, and edibles for the day 
were placed on the table. Peering, however, paid no 
attention to it, but it evidenced the fact that the young 
Satsuma was somewhere in the neighborhood. 

Once or twice his master clapped his hands, to sum¬ 
mon him. On one occasion a long, narrow piece of 
paper fell over the screen in reply. Its apparent imita¬ 
tion of the Practical Letter Writer gave tangible proof 
that he was still diligently applying himself to educa¬ 
tion’s demands. 


Honorable Mr. Foreigner Peering: 

Pear Sir: We have been successful in procuring a 
load of horses, as per your order of the 2nd inst, & they 
will be shiped next Monday. We trust you they will 
reach you in good condition & prove satisfactory. This 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


21a 

is to let yon know that Fuji I sorry he is a rascal to 
leave yon alone, & hoping you are the same, I am, 

Fuji. 


P. S.—I cut the chicken very angry and small in the 
ice hox to eat.” 


Deering smiled whimsically over the laborious effort 
at learning. He knew that the hoy would return for 
good when the dispute was settled. So he hastily packed 
a few belongings, securing what remained behind under 
lock and key. It was more than absurd to attempt to 
lock up the cottage, for any one could effect an entrance 
if bent on it. 

He was glad to he going, even for a limited period, 
as it would he. He was averse to solitude, and Ed¬ 
wards was away on a business trip that took him far 
inland. He had even missed the signs of his servant’s 
operations in the kitchen, the occasional breakage, and 
his frequent practice of whistling what he know of 
Yankee Doodle, the name of which had impressed him 
profoundly. 

Masculinely, he relished the thought of a lively 
skirmish, as an observer; and the shower of ammunition 
it might bring could not harm his cottage. But Mr. 
Denton was obdurate. He felt he had a certain author¬ 
ity over the young man, because of their home ties— 
ties which he had hoped all along might he strengthened*. 


214 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Such beautiful days, golden, languorous, found the 
family outdoors, and with the privilege of friendship, 
Deering joined them in the garden. He did not see 
them all at first; an ornamental bit of scenery, un¬ 
familiar to him, was Yuri in a new blue silk kimono 
and some very pointed American shoes, of which she 
was very proud. 

The golden-hearted lilies of Japan made a blur of 
white, fragrant, ivory-petaled, around the pool, shedding 
their beauty in the last glory of the waning season. But 
it was not on the lilies his eyes lingered, eager and 
hungry. The Major's daughter was trailing her hand 
in the water, watching the foolish carp leap for it in tha 
sunlight. Yuri said a few unintelligible words to her, 
and she looked up with wide, startled gaze, recognizing 
him. A bright, rosy flush overspread her cheeks, leav¬ 
ing her suddenly pale. Her bronze head stiffened 
imperceptibly. 

He advanced, his hat under his arm. Then he knew 
that her little hand was in his, slightly moist from the 
water, cool, and his pulses were tingling. 

“Grace, here's Deering." The Major emerged from 
behind a very ancient copy of an American paper on the 
piazza, where he had been invisible. 

Cherry Blossom arose, with a chilly precision in her 
manner, and opened a great purple silk sunshade over 
her head, walking away. Yuri, an image of respectful 
adoration, following her. 

Grace rushed out, cool and immaculate in her white 
linen dress. She drew him to one of the grotesque stone 
benches, near the arch over the toy stream. 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


215 


‘Guess the news!” She clapped her hands girlishly, 
raising frank eyes to his. “There’s one of our ships at 
Yokohama. Dad says we’d all better go, while the run¬ 
ning is good. Mother, too. His official capacity expires 
soon now that there’s a new President in power, and 
I’m not sorry. He’ll follow later on.” 

' 1S she—are they all going ?” he stammered, feel¬ 
ing as if the entire construction of the universe were 
crumbling under him, disappointment depicted in his 
face. 

“The Major wants to get her hack. He thinks the 
influences here are preventing her from adjusting her¬ 
self to her new sphere. Middle-aged nonsense, isn’t it ? 
What does a man know, anyway, about bringing up a 
daughter, all of a sudden like this ? I think some one 
ought to teach him first how to teach her.” She laughed 
merrily, with little charming glances at him which he 
did not notice; once he would have found them 
irresistible. 

“ Jack.” She nestled closer to him on the stone bench, 
with an abrupt drop to seriousness. Instead of her 
usual somewhat complacent demeanor, her fingers picked 
in embarrassment at the trimmings of her waist, in a 
manner entirely foreign to her. 

“Jack, dear Jack—I—I have wanted to apologize to 
you for ever so long, to tell you that I made a mistake— 
a great mistake—when I refused to let you consider 
our engagement as serious. I’m sorry. I—I really 
did not think I—I cared so much. If you still wish it, 
you can ask Dad now. I am willing, if it is not—not 
too late. And we will all go back together.” 


216 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


He drew back, disturbed. Her visible agitation 
made it doubly bard for bim. He jumped up, walked 
back and forth on tbe pink carpet of tbe Heji-bana, 
across tbe narrow paths, wondering bow be could spare 
her feelings. She bad not hesitated to spare bis tbe 
night of bis arrival, and it seemed a long time ago, so 
rapidly bad time filled tbe gap. There could be no 
evasions between them now; tbe truth, of course—but 
that would be tbe most cruel of all. 

It was an irony of fate that their positions should be 
so reversed, she tbe supplicant, be tbe rejector. 

“Grace,” be said, and be spared her tbe pity of his 
eyes; “that time you refused to acknowledge me as your 
lover you destroyed every little hope I bad brought with 
me, all that long, tedious journey here. I was hungry 
for tbe sight of you. I was determined to come at any 
cost, even at tbe price of offending my father—you know 
all about that by this time. You didn’t like me well 
enough then to acknowledge me as tbe man you were 
going to marry. You sent me away from you, broken¬ 
hearted, crushed by your indifference. God knows, I put 
in some miserable hours, for I bad burnt every bridge 
behind me in order to come, assuming a debt to my 
firm that I must repay. I was sent here for a year. That 
was tbe price I paid to be near you, Grace. But you 
didn’t want me. How, if I make good, I’ll be a junior 
partner. I’d like to do something to make my father 
proud of me, after being tbe failure I’ve been so long. 
Don’t misunderstand me, Grace, dear. You sent me 
away that night—and you sent me away farther than 
you knew—for you sent me out of your life forever. 
I—I’m going to stay here—alone.” 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


217 


His voice dragged out feebly over the last word, un¬ 
willing to Hurt her, as he knew he must. Immovable, 
white, rigid as the stone on which she sat, Grace listened, 
while a tiny scarlet spot grew bigger and bigger in each 
cheek as every word he uttered, kind though it was, 
cut through her in shame, as kindness can often sting 
when those we love perform their little obligations from 
a sense of duty—and not love. 

Behind the white cloudiness of her dress a riotous 
mass of orange-red flowers, tropical plants, made a flame 
of fire; so might that martyr of Bouen have looked with 
her pillar of fire surrounding her. But none of it touched 
the pallor of her face, except the little spots of red, 
burning, consuming her pride. A cicado, solitary, shrill 
in its noise, whirred unsteadily on its transparent wing 
between them. A starling, bereft of its mate, echoed 
plaintively in the group of bamboos by the Temple. 

He had been a brute to hurt her, he admitted to him¬ 
self in deepest contrition, wincing under the pain in her 
face. But there could be no flimsy concealments be¬ 
tween them any longer. The truth, pitiless in its clarity, 
stood between them now. 

“Grace! Grace!” Cousin Em’s substantial voice issued 
from the piazza. “Where are the cherries? There’s 
not a servant left on the place—and the Major is so 
thirsty, poor man.” 

“Cherries?” Grace arose to an upright position, 
swaying on her feet. She put her hand mechanically 
to her head; it ached intolerably. 

“He can’t drink cherries,” she said, dazed, unable 
to recall her thoughts into activity. Her mouth was 
twitching in nervousness; all of her hauteur was gone. 


218 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


She tottered over the little gravel paths, choking in 
her shame. 

“Oh, Cousin Em.” Her arms flew out appealingly, 
with a little pitiful gesture, as she fell weeping on her 
neck. 

The Major, forgetting his thirst, jumped up with a 
suppressed exclamation. By mistake he fanned himself 
with his hat instead of her. 

“There—there,” he endeavored to soothe her, putting 
his arms around both of them in his blundering sym¬ 
pathy. “It’s that damned heat. I never saw anything 
like it. It dries you up on the outside and dries you up 
on the inside. Never mind the cherries, Cousin Em; 
it’s just as good with lemon.” 

The words floated to Deering as he stood irresolute, 
near the little Mound of Contemplation, an upheaval of 
man’s skill and artifice, beyond which fluffy pink mats 
of the creeping Neji-bana were spots of vivid color amid 
the green. Deep vaulted lanes, trickling with yellow 
sunlight, made inviting advances. Conflicting emotions 
disturbed him. He had never felt such an apathetic 
interest in Grace as now, witnessing her visible signals 
of distress over his indifference. Had he entertained 
any latent affection for her, of any kind, it would have 
sprung into activity at her tears. Instead, a great re¬ 
lief, as if a weight had burdened him, pervaded his en¬ 
tire being, an odd little unchecked jubilance. 

He walked leisurely along the fragrant paths, feeling 
a truant’s enjoyment. Suddenly, far off, a coquettish 
pennant in the woodland, there was a fugitive wave of a 
brilliant purple sunshade. His heart leapt responsively. 
Many lapping, noisy brooks separated them, in wide 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


219 


perspectives, and hedges trimmed in grotesque shapes. 
But Deering had all of a lover’s impatience, thrilled 
by that unconscious command. 

Both Yuri and Cherry Blossom had come into his 
full view, and he paused to look across the intervening 
▼ales and rivulets at them, happy in his reflections. 
Then, suddenly, without warning, as an ominous thun¬ 
der cloud sweeps swiftly across the sun’s radiant face, 
obscuring the light, a sharp cry of terror rang out, and 
surprise held him dumb as two dark robed men sprang 
upon the two women, and struggled with them. 

In a thrice, while his blood ran cold, Deering hounded 
recklessly over the toy bridges and the miniature lily- 
ponds, tearing down the hedges in his mad flight, horror- 
stricken at the sight of the girl he loved attacked hy the 
vicious-looking assailants. It seemed ages as he ran 
to her aid, every second fraught with the weight of 
fear, his clothing torn hy thorns, his hands scratched. 

One wide leap, across a rise of stones, and he landed 
on the hack of one of the men. His arms clutched 
around the assassin’s neck, tightening, until the fellow’s 
eyes bulged from the pressure. Instantly, a torrent of 
blows fell on Deering’s head from the accomplice, who— 
not releasing his hold on Cherry Blossom, who was half¬ 
unconscious and leant heavily against his arm—still had 
strength sufficient to protect his friend. Yuri, rising 
half-stunned from the ground where she had been flung, 
the blood oozing from her face, which had been cut hy 
the stones on the path, slowly struggled to her feet. There 
was a wild, tigerish gleam in her eyes. Her thin, brown 
face, impassive in its stoical expression, took on a look 
of unrestrained fury. She reached behind and grabbed 


220 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


a blunt, sharp rock, noiselessly stealing behind the man 
who was rapidly beating Deering into defeat. Already 
his hands were relaxing in their vise around the throat 
of the other rascal, his head was sinking down, strength 
leaving him. One blow more, mighty in its force, and 
Deering fell smartly to the ground, powerless to avert 
the disaster. 

Yuri raised her arm high, and brought the stone down 
on his assailant’s head with such terrific power that it 
seemed to crash against the bones as if at the explosion 
of a cap. There was a moment of suspense on the man's 
part, his huge arms flew up in the fury of the brute, 
to grapple with her, then, heaving a deep sigh, expelling 
one mighty breath, he sank into a helpless heap of rags 
and dirt. 

Cherry Blossom screamed, calling for help, hut the 
flat echo of her voice trembled mockingly around them. 
Enraged, driven by horror, fully understanding the fate 
that threatened her charge, and suspecting who was the 
instigator, Yuri, small though she was, seemed to be 
given supernatural power. She ran swiftly and picked 
up the rock that had secured victory for her, and like 
a brown whirlwind jammed it against the face of the 
man who was even so seizing Cherry Blossom, prepara¬ 
tory to making a dash for escape with her, and struck 
blindly at his eyes, at his head, again and again, her 
tiny frame dodging blows that were aimed at her. It 
was fortunate for her that his other arm was engaged 
with the burden he carried, or she might have fared 
badly. Never once did she relax in her blows, and then, 
finally, putting out her foot, she tripped him skilfully, 
bringing his large body down, as might have a brilliant 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


221 


foe in warfare. Once down, she struck him until she 
had beaten him into insensibility. Then, true to her 
sex, Yuri fell over on the ground and cried. 

There was no time to be lost. She mastered her weak¬ 
ness with a supreme effort, and arose unsteadily to her 
feet, and her frail arms grasped Cherry Blossom’s 
heavier body and dragged it slowly, carefully, over the 
path. It was her only hope. The two assailants would 
come to sooner or later. Their disability was merely 
temporary, she well knew. There was no time to think 
of Deering, unconscious beside them. She would have 
liked to save him from their abuse, which was sure to 
follow when they regained their senses. But it was more 
imperative that she look first to Cherry Blossom’s wel¬ 
fare. The slow, gliding movement over the ground, the 
contact against it, made the friction necessary to re¬ 
store the girl to consciousness. It was fright which had 
overpowered her. She opened her eyes and looked 
blankly at Yuri. Then she raised herself, gradually 
recalling what had just taken place. Where was Deer¬ 
ing ? She broke from Yuri’s grasp, looking back. His 
inert body lay silent and motionless near those of the 
combatants. That was enough. Regardless of all bodily 
danger, conscious only of the danger that he was exposed 
to, Cherry Blossom ran back the distance they had come, 
and supporting him by the arms, tenderly drew his body 
over the gravel path, breathless over the exertion, her 
eyes brilliant, her lips trembling. He had come to her 
aid, regardless of consequences. Yuri, without a word, 
caught up his feet, and together they reached the house. 

Bowing with an ingratiating air, his panama hat in 
his hand, clad in the latest European clothes, Shiko 


222 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


stepped out to greet them. Yuri swept by, ignoring his 
presence. Surprise and rage stamped his dissipated face. 

The Major emerged from behind his newspaper on 
the piazza, regarding the two women with Deering’s 
l im p body in mute astonishment. 

“My lord!” His pipe dropped to the ground. 

“Arrest that man/’ cried Yuri shrilly. “I know what 
he has done. He hired those rascals to try to carry 
Cherry Blossom off. Ask him why, Honorable Mr. 
Major. Ask him-” 

“It is a lie,” said Shiko, blandly smiling. “All day 
have I been inside, checking up some statements of my 
honorable father with one of the secretaries so that we 
can make the shipment tomorrow. I can prove it—I 
call him.” 

The Major summoned a servant, directing him to call 
a doctor, and to make Deering as comfortable as pos¬ 
sible. Yuri, her arm around Cherry Blossom, followed 
behind, giving what aid they could, smoothing the pil¬ 
lows, darkening the room. It was Yuri’s fingers that 
washed the white face free from the disfiguring blood 
spots, and pushed the hair back from his forehead. 
Cherry Blossom had begun it, in a tender ministration, 
but the older woman kept the conventions of her land 
well before her, and nice girls did not perform such 
tasks for their men unless the honorable engagement 
were known. 

Cherry Blossom sat beside the bed, refusing to leave, 
her entire being vibrant with the desire to help to com¬ 
fort him. Once, before the doctor came, behind Yuri’s 
back, she bent over and pressed her lips against his face, 
a Wr falling from her eyes; and it seemed to her there 



MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


223 


was the flicker of an eyelash against his white cheeks, 
acknowledging the unspoken caress. 

There was already a great commotion in the house as 
the news became known. Messengers were dispatched 
to discover the identity of the assailants and find their 
whereabouts. 

The doctor was announced. Cherry Blossom arose 
to leave the darkened room, at Yuri’s admonishment. 
She bent over the motionless form on the white coverlet, 
in her uncontrolled emotion, and her soft lips pressed 
again on his face, in a deep, parting kiss. She jumped 
back with a cry of shame; Deering’s eyes had opened full 
upon her, and their glances held together in one brief 
moment of ecstatic joy. Then his eyes closed again. 

She darted from the room. The doctor was entering, 
with Mrs. Denton and Cousin Em distractedly talking 
to him, both at the same time, and he turned first to 
one side then the other, in a polite endeavor to under¬ 
stand both. 

Cherry Blossom ran into her room, falling on Yuri’s 
bosom once within. They wept together, in a reaction 
of feeling, excited over the adventure that had brought 
such harm. 

Outside the Major’s voice sounded in conversation 
with the police. 

“Ishito, the one we caught, claims that Shiko planned 
the whole thing,” the officer was announcing, dramati¬ 
cally. “There is a long charge against the wealthy Moro- 
shito’s son. Perhaps they are untrue. Maybe not. But 
Ishito says we will find proof that Matsuki’s dead body 
lies in the pit under the inn in the Hon jo. For that 
reason has Shiko supported him these many months. 


224 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


But, where is Shiko ? All traces of him have been lost. 
He was here. He knew we had seized Ishito. I can¬ 
not understand it.” 

Taka, the houseman, came in with deliberate grace, 
and with a low obeisance claimed their attention. 

“Honorable Mr. Major,” he said, politely, “I have 
the good fortune to announce that Shiko, the rascal, 
has just successfully performed the hara-kiri, like the 
descendant of the great samurai that he was. May the 
gods do with him what they please. Too long did I, 
too, suffer from his impertinence and deeds. It is not 
too late. The great Moroshito, his father, must now give 
hack the sable coat. Tomorrow, Morning Dew and I 
will he wed, and already we have our tickets bought 
for the big boat to take us away. Shiko lived a rogue, 
but he died a gentleman. I do not care that he has ruined 
the point of my sword.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Feeling the delicacy of his position, Deering in¬ 
sisted on returning to his cottage at the earliest possible 
time, despite his mental and bodily weakness. 

Somehow, during his gradual return to normalcy, he 
cherished a belief that he had felt the soft contact of 
Cherry Blossom’s lips against his face as he lay strug¬ 
gling for consciousness at the Embassy; but the thought 
seemed so preposterous, so absurd, that he finally dis¬ 
missed it as a figment of his disordered brain, the con¬ 
sequence of the treatment he received. 

Yet, though it seemed to have no actual foundation 
in the realm of tangibility, its elusive, tantalizing spell 
lingered to solace his idle hours. It did not seem fair 
to him that the girl whom he loved with all of the in¬ 
tensity of his nature should be taken out of his life by 
her obdurate parent without some protest. But he knew 
the Major’s determined will that would brook no change, 
and temporarily he could do no more than submit. 

In preparation for the homeward journey, there was 
great confusion at the Embassy, as trunks were hauled 
out of storing places and industriously aired, and boxes 
packed with the innumerable acquisitions of a long 
sojourn. 

He tortured himself thinking about Cherry Blossom, 
while she made several attempts to see him in order to 


225 


226 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


thank him for rushing to her defense in the garden. But 
circumstances, engineered by the Major on the one side 
and Yuri on the other, each fearing a different disaster, 
interfered, and the note of farewell Deering wrote her, 
with its impassioned declaration transmitted between 
the lines, never reached her, owing to Fuji’s careless¬ 
ness ; for he used it for lighting the fire to cook his lord’s 
breakfast. And the verbal messages she sent him by 
Yuri were forgotten, because of Timi’s wonderful ad¬ 
vent into public life, in charge of an imposing regiment 
of Girl Scouts, in trim little brown bloomers and blouses, 
and with caps on their heads. History was being made 
rapidly; the new women of Japan were arriving, pre¬ 
pared to assume their duties with new methods. There 
were no more little mothers seen, burdened by the lusty 
babies of the families strapped to their immature, weak 
backs. Instead, enterprising shop-keepers had gaudy 
new perambulators, which it was a delight to push, for 
one could then combine marketing with exercise for 
baby, and stow away various parcels, of the honorable 
rice, or cha, or bean curds, and deliver all safely at the 
same time. 

Timi was right. A new orator had arisen, speaking 
for the people whom he represented. A peasant, hon¬ 
ored by intellect, and the Diet had conferred the title 
of baron on him. It was a peerage of the brain. They 
were going to be married soon, at one of the churches. 
It had never before happened in the history of the na¬ 
tion that a peasant was made a baron with all honors. 

But there were so many unusual incidents crowding 
their daily lives that ordinary happenings were un¬ 
noticed. Nobody paid any attention to Yuri, who 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


227 


crouched dog-like in dark corners, sad over the imminent 
parting, and muttering prayers to Buddha that the 
irascible Major would relent and allow her to accompany 
them. But on this point that individual was adamant, 
in spite of Cherry Blossom’s tearful pleading. It was 
high time that all connections with the foster-mother of 
his daughter ceased, and while he deeply appreciated 
what Yuri had done for her, and acted for the best as 
well as she could, yet she was merely an instrument of 
fate, and he would repay her by settling a very splendid 
amount of money on her, so that she could always keep 
Chu-Chu, to whom also he would make a stipend. Then 
she would not have to abuse her sturdy legs by working 
them, instead of paddles, in the water ridges, in the 
rice fields. 

It was a long, dreary day, and the carts had already 
deposited their baggage at the station. A short journey, 
and they would be in the big, bustling port, and find the 
enormous ocean greyhound waiting for them. 

Cherry Blossom divided her time between weeping 
at leaving Yuri behind and joy at the thought of Deering 
being with them, for she imagined that he was to accom¬ 
pany them back to his own strange land, and it helped 
stifle the little sadness she experienced at the thought 
of his being engaged to Mees Grace; for otherwise, why 
was she always with him, and leaning so—with her 
arm in his ? 

Yuri was allowed to accompany them to the boat; 
that was concession enough for joy, and made the rapid 
journey all too brief. Then they were rushed aboard, 
boxes and trunks were swung on, as the crew heaved and 


228 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


shouted; for they wanted to go out on the tide, to save 
time, and it was necessary to hurry. 

In a few minutes they would be off. Cherry Blossom 
stood at the port hole of her cabin, waving and throwing 
kisses to poor Yuri, who stood alone on the deck, a piti¬ 
ful little figure torn by grief. 

“Where’s Deering? Isn’t he going?” she heard her 
father ask, out on deck, almost in front of her. “I hope 
he isn’t late.” 

“He’s not coming,” Cousin Em said, in a matter- 
of-fact tone. 

“Hot coming? What’s the reason, Grace?” He 
looked around in surprise. He had taken it for granted, 
seeing the two continually together. 

“I don’t know,” she tried to reply lightly, hut the 
flippancy sat awkwardly on her. “Don’t ask me.” The 
silence that followed was expressive. 

“Well, you women are queer, I must say,” the Major 
growled. 

Cherry Blossom listened eagerly. Her tender heart, 
anticipating delight just from the knowledge of his be¬ 
ing on the same boat, gave a hound, then sank. He was 
not coming. She could still manage to see the dim out¬ 
lines of Yuri’s little form, in the waiting room on the 
pi er — a shapeless figure in its national dress which so 
irritated the Major—and a great longing for her dear 
brown face and comforting arms shot through her vi¬ 
brantly. The two people she loved the most in the 
world would he left behind. Tears rolled down her 
cheeks in despair. 

The crew was hauling up the anchor. There was 
still time to decide. The new world was un kn own and 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


229 


unreal, a nebula of undreamt dreams and hopes, per¬ 
haps disappointments. It held no allurements for her. 

Her hands trembled as she caught up her new suit¬ 
case and stealthily crept out in the darkness, stooping 
so that the Major would not recognize her. Ho one saw 
her as she scampered swiftly back over the gang plank. 
There was a little smothered, tearful cry as she was 
engulfed in Yuri’s loving arms again. The giant smoke¬ 
stack sent forth a deep-throhted sound as the huge mon¬ 
ster vibrated under its power; there was a rush of 
waters as it ploughed its way through; and then, with 
majestic grace, it turned its prow toward the sea, glid¬ 
ing like a phantom ship in the distance, until it dis¬ 
appeared in the spray of the waves. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Deebing nad resumed his duties at his offices, for the 
clash between the clans had resolved itself into an artis¬ 
tic bit of Oriental diplomacy maneuvred as it was by 
the mighty hut invisible forces behind the throne. Often, 
he cherished the hope that he might be hurt by a stray 
shot, for it would be a pleasant release from the burden 
of his thoughts; but the clash was descending from 
gunpowder to words, which are always mightier than 
the sword, and the worm-eaten, ancient regime of the 
Elder Statesman Administration was being denounced 
by the opposition party, resignation following resigna¬ 
tion in the Imperial household. 

Feeling unequal to the ordeal of bidding the travelers 
good-bye, he had dispatched his farewell by note, which 
later he discovered had never been delivered. However, 
he could not argue that it made any difference, for he 
had decided that such trivialities as distance could not 
keep him away from the Major’s daughter, even if pa¬ 
rental obstacles did; and instead of completing the year 
he had pledged himself for here, it could easily be con¬ 
densed into half that time. For love cannot be con¬ 
trolled by latitude and longitude, and he would follow 
them. 

He wished that either Edwards or Fuji would return, 
to make life more bearable, for continuous solitude, 


230 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


231 


giving free opportunity for the mocking return of memo¬ 
ries—only memories, for there had never been anything 
tangible that his affection could feed upon in the inter¬ 
mittent meetings he had had with Cherry Blossom— 
was testing his powers of endurance, and he did not see 
how his fortitude would be capable of longer or greater 
trial. 

Then one night an Oriental etching showed itself 
against his screen, and resolved itself into the recreant 
Fuji, who as usual with a loud clearing of his throat 
began to read his latest literary effusion, prefacing it 
with the familiar copied letter about the load of horses. 
For to him that was the manner in which all polite let¬ 
ters evidently began; for was it not given in the honor¬ 
able book? He had returned anxious to again kill the 
honorable fish for him; and he did not want his honor¬ 
able lord to cut him up in his wrath. He was very 
sorry he had run away; he knew he was a black dog, 
and hoping that Honorable Foreigner was the same, he 
read off his name, Fuji. He looked toward his master 
for praise of his scholarship, with a deep obeisance to 
the floor. 

ffn fact, you mean to say you’re sorry you ran off ?” 
Deering asked, with a tolerant smile. “Save yourself 
the ink, Fuji—and please remember I’m not buying 
horses. It’s all right, my boy. You can stay, but the 
next time I’ll not take you back—remember. How 
proceed to your honorable work. There’s a stack of 
dirty dishes waiting for the honorable dishpan, and I 
have a very honorable appetite for some hot coffee and 
toast. Be off.” 


232 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


There was a noisy commotion outdoors. In the dark¬ 
ness, rockets flashed across the sky in gleaming serpen¬ 
tine flight, trailing their fiery splendor in their wake, 
not a whit less bright than the twinkling stars. Music, 
discordant for the most part, hands collected in haste, 
sounded in unison, as if the marchers were parading the 
streets. 

Fuji, forgetting his promises, dashed out for news; 
he came back with eyes shining with delight, breathless 
over the information. The royal betrothal was upheld. 
The proud naval clan, his clan, the Satsumas, had won! 
Twelve lantern prayers for him that night, even if it 
kept him awake till dawn; and there would be two dishes 
of rice with the stick of senko on the shrine of the Im¬ 
perial Ancestors. His clan had won! A new Imperial 
minister had been appointed. The great god Buddha 
had smiled on them. 

“Thank heavens.” Deering stretched himself out full 
length on the floor, in want of a better place, his head on 
a zabuton, fingering for his pipe. “How we can resume 
our honorable housekeeping. Proceed to the kitchen, 
Fuji, and begin.” 

When the boy finished he would clap for him to come 
in; he did not want to be alone; his thoughts were poor 
company, even worse. He felt he must talk with some¬ 
one, hear a human voice, or he would go mad. 

He had mentally traveled every inch of the way back 
on the boat with the little party. He had imagined how 
the Major’s daughter would look on deck, as her eyes 
beheld the sea and the huge green waves; her pleasure 
in the innumerable comforts of the big ship. Then, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


233 


her first vision of the land she belonged to. Would she 
like it? 

She would attract attention, admiration everywhere 
she went, and little stabs of jealonsy made his blood 
run hot. What a fool he was to sit and dream of her, 
separated each day by a greater distance. 

He sat up, crosslegged, trying to shake off his mood. 
The heavy curtain that concealed his picture hung 
where it caught his gaze. He retailed Fuji’s promise 
to have the painting mended, in some miraculous 
fashion; he knew it was not there, but unable to resist 
the temptation, he drew it aside, as the lantern from 
the inner room emitted a dull light that would enable 
him to see. 

He stepped back with an exclamation of surprise and 
delight. 

It was there; the Satsuma, careless in many promises 
as he was, had at least fulfilled one. 

It impressed him anew that it bore a striking re¬ 
semblance to the Major’s daughter. He stood near it, 
carefully studying the outline of the face, the curve 
of the mouth, and the wistful droop of the eyes. He 
loved it—and he knew that it was because he loved the 
Major’s daughter, because it resembled her. 

“My dearest love.” He fell rapturously on his knees 
before it, his arms outstretched. 

The inscrutable brown face of Fuji appeared politely 
at the door. 

“Honorable Mr. Foreigner call?” he asked, with a 
bow. “Sake ? Cha?” 

“Nothing.” Deering’s senses rebounded into their 
proper adjustments again. He stepped out in the cool 


234 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


air, controlling himself. He would soon be the lunatic 
be was acting if be did not pull himself together. 

The hyperbolic description of the Hishigawa Kichibei 
portraits recurred to him: 

“Eyes like the lotus-blossoms courting favor; 

Lips like the smile of a red flower.” 

What incomparable euphony this race was capable of 
in its phrasing; to link words thus together like pearls 
on a thread of gold. He stepped out into the darkness, 
towards the red and green lanterns on the Ginza. Around 
him a happy, merry-making crowd moved, rejoicing in 
the royal betrothal. Elags waved from stalls, banners 
and pennants were strung across the streets. Like the 
sun, emerging from behind a bank of clouds in sullen 
gloom, the sudden festivities made deserted teahouses 
rapidly fill with gaily-dressed visitors; the flower sellers 
came out of hiding places and resumed their stoic march 
up and down with their calls of “Hasa-no-hana.” The 
figures of pretty musumees, with glistening lacquered 
hair, trotted past in pigeon fashion on tiny clogs. Blind 
old samisen players moved out of friendly shadows, 
afraid no longer. The temple bells rang, for prayers 
of thankfulness. 

“Bandi! Bandi! Four million years of happiness!” 
shouted the little ones, as they clamored to pass the 
wonderful god Jizo, who brought them gifts. 

He thought of poor little Flower Garden—and her 
last sad journey to the Jizo. 

“Four million years of happiness!” Lusty treble 
voices rang out around him. 

He stepped, uncertain as to his reasons, into Osaka’s 
qflshop, idly passing the time. Deering had a peculiar 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


235 


impression of touching moist objects, rubbing against 
them in the dark; odors or paint, turpentine. But be did 
not analyze it, for the aged dealer, rubbing bis thin, 
wrinkled bands, was approaching him, taking shape out 
of the dark; and be was very deferential and polite, for 
he did not know yet whether he bad come to praise him 
or to denounce him. 

Deering jumped at once into the subject nearest bis 
heart. He bad paid very little attention to the garrulous 
old dealer in curios when he recited the legends of the 
great artist’s paintings. He listened very carefully now, 
as Osaka assumed an air of profound wisdom, for he 
knew them completely by heart. 

When the great Hisbigawa lived he painted the spirit 
in the picture. A samurai loved a Hishigawa lady 
many, many years ago; and bis love burnt so that her 
heart caught fire, and she stepped out of the frame. And 
they lived in Paradise ever afterwards. There was no 
reason why Honorable Foreigner should not win a Hisbi¬ 
gawa lady, too. 

Deering laughed in scorn. 

“You’re mad, too, Osaka,” he derided him. 

‘'Why not?” Osaka shook his head blandly, undis¬ 
turbed at the compliment. 

“Did not the chaffinch step out of the frame, leaving 
a hole?” 

“Confound that chaffinch—do you think that would 
convince me, man ?” He moved away, his hands in his 
pockets, hut Osaka ran lightly after him, putting one 
brown hand on his arm to detain him. 

“She will answer you,” he nodded his head sagely. 
“I have it here in the book how to win her. Wait, I get 


236 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


it.... ” He disappeared in the rear, returning with a 
small leather hook which he opened with great awe. His 
sharp little eyes ran over the pages, seeking the infor¬ 
mation he wanted. 

“It say Honorable Foreigner must put a cup of wine 
before the Hishigawa lady—wine bought at 100 differ¬ 
ent places. Then you offer it to her in the name of 
love and she will step out of the frame herself, to drink 
the wine and so she steps into his world.” 

“Nonsense!” Deering scoffed at such absurdities, 
taking his departure. He confessed to a certain amount 
of inanity and foolishness, hut that did not represent 
such an inferior mental state as the suggestions the 
Oriental made. He would he content in the possession 
of the ancient work of art; for surely the sense of owner¬ 
ship was sweet enough and offered small substitute for 
what it mysteriously represented to him. He could not 
disassociate it with Cherry Blossom, and in an inex¬ 
plicable manner the one made him think of the other 
until his head whirled in confusion. 

The gay lanterns, brilliantly orange, vivid shades of 
blue and green, combined with the white glare of elec¬ 
tric lights, gave a warm radiance to the streets. Crowds 
passed by, engrossed in their customary night shopping; 
hatless, the echoes of their laughter, of voices, mingled 
with the vibrant sounds of samisens as aged musicians 
held out their hands for money. Little groups of stu¬ 
dents, boisterous, merry, paused to chat with unattended 
musumees. In the shadows, geishas lingered, following 
their masters. 

A cloud of incense, fragrant, dense, poured out of a 
temple at the corner; the bronze hells rang softly, mellow 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


237 


in their tones, remindiing the delinquents of their 
promises. 

“bTamu Amida Butsu,” the pious ones were praying 
within, clapping their hands over their devotions. “Hear 
me, Great Buddha.” 

A sob, stifled, despairing, arose above the clamor; 
two little figures, grotesque in their paint and finery, 
tottered by, in the grip of an older person—a man of 
evil countenance, who roughly jerked them forward as 
they dragged behind, unwilling to accompany him. Be¬ 
hind them, a shapeless object in the dark, was their 
mother, unmoved by their tearful implorations. 

There was something familiar in their appearance. 
Deering stared at them, filled with pity. They were 
the younger sisters of Climbing Bose and Butterfly, 
being driven to their horrible fate. 

“Hasu-no-hana.” A flower pedlar thrust his fragrant 
boxes in front of him, misconstruing his actions. He 
shook his head without speaking. The grief of the two 
little girls affected him deeply, but he knew he was 
powerless to help. Children in years, compelled to obey 
parental command, they had no alternative. The pres¬ 
ence of the mother in the rear, determined, adamant, 
bent on obtaining sufficient yen to live in comfortable 
circumstances, and provide offerings to the gods, no 
matter on what conditions, made their plight hopeless. 
There was no alternative. 

Crowds made merry around them, not aware of the 
tragedies brushing by. It was merely an incident, soon 
forgotten, a custom upheld by traditions. 

The Thunder Gate opened to receive them, as it did 
thousands of others. Behind the latticed fronts some 


238 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


of the favorites sat, their red and purple silk kimonos 
marking their vocation, their glistening lacquered hair 
decorated with expensive jeweled pins, their lips out¬ 
lined with scarlet. A head might be turned, arrested 
by the tearful cries; but it would only be for the second. 
Memory—pity—sympathy—all are gone in the Yoshi- 
wara. Nothing matters any more. One must live. 

The body is the City of the Nine Gates. It does not 
make any difference how one treats it, for it is merely 
the dwelling place of the soul, and is occupied but a 
short time, on its road to Nirvana. 

The bronze bells of the temples rang out, invoking 
offerings. 

“Namu Amida Butsu,” sounded the prayers. Hear 
me, Great Lord Buddha.” One must pray, appease the 
gods, worship ancestors. Nothing else matters. It is 
the soul that must he cared for. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Fuji had retired when Peering returned. An odd 
oppressive stillness made far distant noises more acuta 
The whine of a dog, prowling outside, pierced the omi¬ 
nous quiet, in sharp, apprehensive notes. There was no 
breeze, neither was it sultry, but the strange atmospheric 
condition seemed to hold all life and animation in 
breathless suspense. Even the clamoring mushi-kild 
were silenced for once, held in abeyance by fear. 

Peering did not proceed to bed. He knew he would 
not sleep. He made himself comfortable, in the dark, 
smoking, trying to reject the foolish words of Osaka, 
which came back to him with dogged persistency. But 
he resisted the temptation to put the experiment into 
execution, though its whimsical ceremony, which he 
knew could be nothing but the credulity of ignorance, 
appealed strongly to a latent vein of romanticism. The 
awe of the midnight silence, the intimate communion 
with the beautiful Hishigawa lady, in isolation from 
all else while the world lay sleeping, combined to throw 
a spell over him, clouding his saner senses. He felt 
reckless as to consequences. 

It would make a pretty homage to the old master’s 
art, genius that had excelled all others in two hundred 
years, incomparable in its puzzling, glowing life-tints 
and rich pigment. 


239 


240 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


He had no means of purchasing wine at 100 different 
shops, as the legend demanded. However, he stealthily 
groped his way, searching for some bottles, and his hand 
trembled as he poured out the liquid. In the dead of 
night, alone, it was not without a feeling of awe that 
he raised his head, and held up the cup as he had been 
told to do to the exquisite face in the canvas. 

“My dearest, dearest love.” His voice repeated the 
words in tenderness, for he caressed the thought that 
it was in reality to the Major’s daughter he was offering 
it, and not to the unresponsive canvas. 

There was a moment of intolerable dread, as if heaven 
and earth were pitiless, as the Oriental says. With a 
sickening, horrible fear he saw the tiny house rock, 
almost pushed from its supports, and the American 
chairs scraped hack and forth over the floor. In the 
adjoining room the china fell with a din. 

With cosmic force, he felt as if he were being swung 
around in a never-ending circle, the walls moving with 
him as if a mighty hand grabbed the frail structure in 
destruction. 

There was a scream of terror from Fuji, now thor¬ 
oughly aroused. He sprang like a madman, running 
for safety to the open shoji, clinging to it, shaking as 
if from ague, in fright. 

“Jishin, Jishin. The big fish is trying to throw the 
earth off of its honorable back,” he shouted over and 
over, his eyes bulging with fear, as tree tops snapped 
outdoors, and a wide fissure rent the ground. “It is the 
wrath of the gods. The gods are angry that the Chu- 
Shus lost. Tomorrow there will be two sticks of senko 
with the rice—and perhaps a live fish.” 



MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


241 


It was the earthquake. 

Again the bamboo building rocked and creaked, only 
to fall back again in convulsive movements on its foun¬ 
dations ; and this time all of the furniture went slipping 
pell-mell in confusion, smartly bumping into each other, 
upsetting, adding to the fearful sensations. 

And then something happened. As Deering looked 
around, amazed at his own calmness, the large frame of 
the Hishigawa picture fell down with a mighty crash. 

And as Osaka had said, the beautiful woman in the 
canvas stepped out, and came to life. 

This time his eyes had not deceived him. 

He almost thought he heard the rustle of a garment 
as she rushed by him, and he clutched at the receding 
figure as it swayed towards the shoji, but his hand was 
paralyzed in astonishment. 

He forced himself to action, springing after her. 

“It is the wrath of the gods,” Fuji whimpered, crawl¬ 
ing toward his screen, in order to repeat some long- 
neglected prayers. It had fallen down, hut he pushed 
it in place, holding to it tenaciously as it glided over 
the floor, carrying him with it. “Tomorrow I do a 
lantern prayer seven times, and put a big fish on the 
shrine.” 

But his honorable lord gave no heed to his admission 
of knavery. He reached the shoji, catching the Hishi¬ 
gawa lady by her dress. She struggled, frightened, as 
if unwilling to be held captive on earth. 

But love is masterful, and with the most conflicting 
emotions of mingled doubt and belief, Deering drew 
her slowly into the circle of his arms. His hand, half 
unconvinced as he was, fell firmly on hers; for a second 


242 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


it fluttered away, then lay again in his. It was very 
velvety—and warm—and human. 

He dared not look at her. He was eager to, hut 
afraid. His arms made a strong prison around her, 
and she tried to disengage herself, but he held her fast. 

“There is no use trying to leave me now,” he said, 
his voice thick with some of his repressed emotion. “You 
are mine, whoever you are, living or dead. You are 
mine—mine—mine. Don’t you know I love you? I 
am mad over you ?” And in the dark he bent his head 
and kissed her. 

Fuji, having appeased his conscience by many tardy 
pledges, as the wicked jishin gradually subsided with 
less frequent recurrences—and whose courage increased 
with its decline—remembered to light the lantern and 
swing it on its hook on the wall, flooding the room with 
its weird green glow. 

The Hishigawa lady, embarrassed at her predicament, 
hid her head against Deering’s arm. He drew her 
slowly into the light, raising her face. Her eyes drooped 
down as in the picture; there was still that remarkable 
resemblance that he loved in it. The soft-tinted kimono 
traced with cherry blossoms was identical with the one 
in the canvas; the same bunches of the flowers decorated 
her head at the sides. She opened her eyes—and looked 
at him— 

And then he remembered. 

It was the Major’s daughter. 

“Oh, Meester Deering.” She stretched her hands 
toward him for clemency, not understanding the severity 
of his expression. “Meester Deering, forgive,” she 


MISS CHEERY BLOSSOM 


243 


sobbed aloud, overcome by shame because of her 
deception. 

“Forgive—I, forgive you ?” His voice trembled; bis 
arms still held her; the loud, irregular beating of bis 
heart sounded against her cheek. Cherry Blossom be¬ 
gan to cry, her tender heart broken, afraid of his dis¬ 
pleasure. Fragmentary recollections returned to him, 
revealing everything to him. 

He could not entirely adjust himself to the rapture 
of it, struggling with the surprise it gave him. And 
she had been here—with him—all of those terrible, 
lonely days, when his heart ached for her, and he had 
not known it. It was pity for himself that lent his 
countenance its look of austerity that frightened her. 

He gathered her closer to him, unable to speak, only 
aware that love surged through him like a powerful 
stimulant, making his pulse throb, and he had no power 
to check it—nor did he want to. He had the girl he 
loved in his arms, and he would never let her go. 

Fuji cleared his throat in warning behind his screen. 
Yuri, representing the honorable propriety as established 
by the Sho-rei Hikke, was anxious to go; the honor¬ 
able love was very nice for young people; but she was 
more concerned about Chu-Chu and her fat legs, which 
could not carry her far if the jishin upset their house. 

It had no effect. Thereupon he sang discordantly: 
“Cha, Cha, 

Chan, Chan, 

Yoitomose, Yoitomose, 

Chan, Chan, Chan— 

Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden. 


244 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


Who cuts the bamboo at the hack of the house, 

My sweet lord’s own bamboo, the first he planted. 
Come, let us dance the Dance of the Honorable 
Garden.” 

Soon he must prepare breakfast, and there were stub¬ 
born skins to remove from the honorable bacon ; for that 
had he always used his master’s pocket-knife, while he 
blissfully slept, unconscious of the damages being done; 
and there was also a fish to be cut into angry pieces, 
very small. 

The great Hishigawa picture lay on the floor where 
it had fallen. Deering raised it to an upright position. 
Then he gravely put Cherry Blossom’s face in the hole 
again, until it became a part of the painting. 

She was afraid her deception had displeased him; 
he could surmise that from her troubled eyes. He bent 
his head and kissed her—as he had longed to do during 
the long days that had passed—to reassure her. Then 
he drew her out again into his arms. 

“Dearest,” he said tenderly, “I—I found out what 
that little god was you gave me that night; it was 
Gekkawo, the god of marriage. We’ll make it come 
true.” Something dropped from his pocket, as he drew 
it out, and rolled noisily on the floor. He picked it up 
hastily, without releasing her, coloring in confusion; 
but not before she had seen it. It was Jizo, the god 
of little children. 

Outside, cries of terror, screams, the terrible din of 
falling buildings cut through as if the skies above the 
earth had fallen. The crimson of flame sent ruddy glows 
in through the shoji of the tiny cottage, snapping, 


MISS CHERRY BLOSSOM 


245 


crackling in their greedy, devouring power. Old build- 
ings gave way into ruins as so much paper. The lick- 
ing, rushing fires burnt out hideous memories of cruelty 
and sin and shame. The lust-house of the Yoshiwara, 
a terrible monument of man’s sensuality, a mass of vivid 
fire and alive with terror-stricken humanity, for one 
moment glittered in the black night, vivid, like all sin, 
tottering on its foundation of vice, and was swept into 
the oblivion of the ruins with all the rest. 

Timi’s prophecy had come to pass. Timi was right. 
Like a wonderful mirage, a hope for the future, one saw 
a beautiful new city rise out of the debris, smiling little 
children, tiny armies practised in the march, woman 
emancipated, leading, where once she was forced to 
follow. 

Cherry Blossom clung fast to the loving arms that 
held her. Here they were safe. Bright before her, 
painting the future with a glorious pigment that would 
endure for all time, years of happiness stretched, with 
the man she loved. 

Fuji sang all the louder. The honorable love was 
all right, but after the shock of the terrible jishin a cup 
of tea would be very refreshing, so he emphasized the 
words of his song, to command their attention: 

“Cha, Cha, 

Chan, Chan, 

Yoitomose, Yoitomose— 

Come, let us dance the dance of the Honorable 
Garden.” 


THE EED 


































I • 


















-( 






































































t 












' 



















































































































♦ 



















/ 

















V 




























/ 



















* 






f 
















































* 






















.H 


% 


6 




& 


































